


How the Dragon Soars

by Blank402



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-12 07:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11732769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blank402/pseuds/Blank402
Summary: Robert Baratheon died at the Battle of the Trident and his rebellion died with him. Fifteen years later, King Rhaegar has done his best to ensure a lasting peace for the Seven Kingdoms, but nothing can last forever. A time of war is coming, a time for fire and blood, and it falls to Rhaegar’s children to ensure their father’s realm does not fall to ruin.





	1. Jaehaerys I

1

Jaehaerys

 The _Prince’s Song_ pulled into the harbor of Dragonstone on a dark and rainy day. Jae stood on the prow of the ship, the hood of his black cloak protecting him from the worst of the drizzle. Despite numerous visits throughout his youth, the spectacle of the castle never ceased to amaze him; the towers shaped by long lost magic into the shape of dragons, the cavalcade of beasts which guarded the crenellations: gargoyles, griffins, wyverns, manticores and so many more which were long extinct if they ever existed at all. On this day, he could barely make out the castle through the haze of the rain and the thick fog blanketing the island.

“This rain must be a sign from the gods,” said his sister Rhaenys as she stepped next to him. “They shed tears for our dearly departed grandfather.”

She took after her mother in looks: petite and slender, olive-skinned and dark haired. She had their father’s eyes though, a purple so dark it was almost black. At seven-and-ten she was three years Jae’s senior, but he stood a head taller than her.

“Tears of joy, maybe,” said Jae. Like her, he took after his mother in looks. His dark hair, grey eyes and long face made him look more a Stark than a Targaryen.

Rhaenys’ facade broke as she descended into a fit of giggles.

“Oh, Jae,” she said around a mouthful of laughter. “You mustn't speak ill of the dead.”

Jae’s earliest memory of his grandfather, the Mad King Aerys, came from when he was six years old. His father had brought he and his siblings to Dragonstone to see the mad old man he called their grandfather. The old man’s silver hair was matted and unkempt, the nails of his fingers and toes unclipped and yellow, his robes stained and stinking of his own filth. Jae’s father presented him to the man who had once been king.

In a rare moment of lucidity, his grandfather said, “You look like your whore mother.”

It was the nicest thing Aerys ever said to him.

“It’s as Septa Eglantine always says,” Rhaenys said, once again taking on a mask of seriousness as she mimicked the septa who had instructed her in the ways of courtesy. “‘If you haven’t anything nice to say then it is best not to say anything at all.’”

“If that’s so then Grandfather’s funeral is to be a silent affair,” Jae’s older brother Aegon said as he joined them on the prow of the ship. Where Jae and Rhaenys took after their mothers, Aegon was the mirror image of their father: tall and lean, hair the color of beaten silver, and attentive, dark purple eyes. None who laid eyes on him could say he was not handsome, but he carried with him a dour air which many found off putting.

“The gods will curse you both,” Rhaenys said, a smile tugging at her thin lips.

Aegon leaned on the ship’s railing. “Grandfather was our curse, sister, and we are finally rid of him.”

They were raised on cautionary tales of Aerys the Mad King, stories of how his actions nearly shattered the realm. Every few years their father dragged them off to Dragonstone to see their lunatic grandfather in person, to make the stories real. Impossibly, the former king seemed more mad each time they visited. On their last visit he refused to see them, convinced they were assassins wearing the skins of his family.

“The world will not mourn his passing,” Rhaenys agreed. The proof of that was the miniscule funeral party which traveled to Dragonstone to see the Mad King laid to rest. Aside from Jae’s own family -- who only made the trip at his father’s insistence -- no one else from his father’s court had bothered to make the trip. The realm at large ignored the news of the Mad King’s death. To many of them Aerys had died long ago.

“We should be happy,” Rhaenys continued. “Our trips to this dreary island are at an end.”

“Perhaps for Jaehaerys,” Aegon said. “But I’m afraid our future is tied to this ‘dreary island,’ sister. Now that Grandfather’s ghost no longer haunts the halls, the castle will pass to me as Father’s heir. Once we are wed it will be our home until I ascend to the throne.”

“That won’t be for some time yet,” Jae said, hoping to reassure his sister, hoping to reassure himself.

“My nameday will come in three turns of the moon,” said Aegon, almost apologetic in tone. “I’ll be six-and-ten, a man grown. I doubt father will wait long before seeing me take my rightful place.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Rhaenys turned to Aegon with a grin. “Though it is always possible Mother’s sense will win out in the end.”

Queen Elia had made her displeasure at the idea of her son and daughter marrying more than apparent. The king and queen’s marriage, strained at the best of times, seemed to be on the brink of collapse. Jae had heard whispers at court claiming the king would put his feeble wife aside in favor of a new bride. Margaery Tyrell was the popular choice amongst the gossipers, considered by many to be the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms. She had been brought to court by her father, who extolled her beauty and virtue any time the king was in earshot.

“It’s a pretty idea, sister, but when has Father ever seen sense?” Aegon turned and left. Rhaenys watched him leave. Jae kept his eyes on the castle. He felt Rhaenys’s hand enclose his own, soft and delicate. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb.

“Perhaps I can convince Father to let me come with you,” Jae said, only half joking. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can be your sworn sword. You’ll be Queen Naerys and I can be your Dragonknight.”

Jae kept his eyes on the castle but he could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. “Like the mummeries we used to reenact in the godswood?”

“Only this time Ser Barristan won’t be there to interrupt us.” He looked down at her hand over his, marvelling at how warm it felt despite the chill of the rain. He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss there.

“If only, brother,” she said. He locked eyes with her. There was sincerity there. And regret. “But I made a promise.”

“A promise?” It took considerable effort for Jae to keep the sulk off his face. “I remember many promises being made beneath the trees of the godswood.”

“Those weren’t promises. They were the foolish dreams of foolish children.”

“We’re scarcely older now than we were then.”

She stood on the tips of her toes to place a proper, sisterly kiss on his cheek. “And are we still fools?” Before he could answer, she turned to face the deck and extended her arm. “Come, brother. It appears our father is ready to depart.”

Arm in arm, they met their father as he stepped onto the ship’s deck with Aegon. King Rhaegar, First of his Name, cut a figure which would make most knights envious. His high cheekbones, strong jaw and deep indigo eyes were known to make maidens swoon. Though he was approaching his fortieth year his age did not show on his face.

The ship’s crew set up a gangplank between the ship and the docks. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, and the oldest member of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, descended first. They made an impressive sight walking shoulder-to-shoulder in their white enameled armor, white cloaks billowing in the wind. Ser Jaime Lannister, another member of their order, greeted them on the docks. The golden haired knight had spent the last fifteen years of his life on Dragonstone guarding Jae’s grandfather. He’d grown a close cropped beard since Jae saw him last.

Jae’s father came next, followed closely by two more members of the Kingsguard: Ser Lyle Crakehall and Ser Rolland Storm. Jae and his siblings were next. Jae and Rhaenys walked side by side, Aegon trailed after them. Behind them came the last member of the Kingsguard to make the voyage, Ser Oswell Whent. Queen Elia, whose delicate health made prolonged journeys a troublesome affair, had chosen to remain in King’s Landing with her brother, the Hand of the King Doran Martell, whose own affliction made travel a difficulty.

On the docks, they were greeted not only by Ser Jaime, but also by Aurane Waters, the castellan of Dragonstone. A score of guardsmen from Dragonstone’s garrison were there as well, dressed in the black and red livery of House Targaryen.

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” Aurane said with a slight bow as Jae and his siblings stepped onto the dock. He had white-gold hair which marked his Valyrian ancestry and grey-green eyes which matched the waters of the Narrow Sea. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“It was, given the circumstances,” Rhaenys said, all grace and courtesy.

“Your grandfather was a deeply troubled man,” Aurane said, “But I mourn him still.”

“As do we all,” Jae said. Aegon remained silent, knowing as Jae and Rhaenys did no one mourned the passing of the Mad King.

Jae’s young aunt Daenerys descended arm-in-arm with her betrothed, Jae’s cousin and his father’s ward, Robb Stark. Though only three-and-ten, Daenerys’ porcelain skin, brilliant silver-gold hair and vibrant violet eyes had many men hailing her as one of the most beautiful maidens in the Seven Kingdoms. Her betrothed, the heir to the North, looked more a Tully than a Stark: fair skinned and auburn haired, his eyes a watery blue. The two of them descending the gangplank together was the very image of young love. 

Jae’s uncle Viserys was next with his wife Arianne Martell. They were a study in opposites: Arianne dark and curvaceous, Viserys pale and gaunt. Their two children -- Visenya and Llewyn -- had been left behind with Arianne’s father.

Jae’s father lead his family down the docks, flanked on either side by members of the Kingsguard. At the end of the docks carriages waited. Jae followed his father and his siblings into one of the carriages. Things were quiet as the carriage rolled through the harbor and the village beyond on the road to Dragonstone castle.

“I know you three have little love for your grandfather,” Jae’s father broke the silence. “But it’s important to remember that the man he became was not the man he always was. He was a good man once, and a good king. That is the man we are here to mourn today. Do you understand?”

Jae and Rhaenys nodded, but Aegon asked, “How can we mourn a man we never knew?”

Father locked eyes with his heir, neither looked away. After a moment, he said, “If you cannot mourn for your grandfather, then mourn for your aunt, uncle, and I who have lost our father.”

“Daenerys and Viserys have as many happy memories of the Mad King as we do,” Aegon said. “As many, I’d imagine, as you have.”

“You do not know as much as you think, Aegon,” Father said. “A fact which I grow tired of having to constantly remind you.”

“Enlighten me then, Father, share with me your fondest memory of the Mad King.”

Father looked away from Aegon, casting his gaze outside the carriage’s window where the bleak terrain of Dragonstone rolled by. “Your grandfather arranged the marriage between your mother and I. Without him I would not have you or your sister. Without him I would not have Daenerys or Viserys. Without him we would not be a family. Think on that, if you must, while your grandfather is laid to rest.”

“And what shall Jaehaerys think upon? The grandfather and uncle he never got a chance to know because they were slain by the Mad King?”

Jae sighed and kept his gaze out the window. He saw as little sense in his father's words as Aegon, but knew well enough that arguing the point would be futile. Aegon knew as well, but didn’t care. It was always this way between his father and older brother. They couldn’t share a room without finding something to argue about, no matter how senseless. He only wished they would leave him out of their squabbles.

“That’s enough.” Father did not raise his voice, but the command carried weight. “You are the crown prince, regardless of your feelings toward your grandfather you will comport yourself with dignity and tact. That goes for you two as well,” he added to Jae and Rhaenys. “Understood?”

“We understand, Father,” Rhaenys said before Aegon could speak. She shot her brother a look which made it clear the matter was settled.

The rest of the carriage ride passed in a properly somber silence. They passed through the gates of the castle and disembarked from their carriage. A young maester by the name of Pylos greeted them in the castle’s courtyard. Once the rest of the carriages arrived, Pylos lead the funeral party to the castle’s sept. The inside of the sept smelt of incense and thick clouds of smoke hung lazily in the air. Statues depicting the aspects of the Seven stood at each of the sept’s seven wall, wrought in wood and adorned with gold and jewels.

Pylos lead them to the center of the sept, where a pyre had been built. Atop the pyre laid a man Jae scarcely recognized. Death had smoothed out the angry lines of his grandfather’s face, making him look more peaceful than Jae had ever seen him. He had been thoroughly cleaned to the point where he smelled nicer than any corpse ought to, his silver hair and beard brushed and trimmed to an acceptable length, his nails clipped. He looked more like a man Jae would have been happy to call his grandfather and less like a man he had dreaded being forced to see throughout his youth.

Jae’s father bent to place a kiss on the dead man’s brow. He turned to Daenerys, who kept her distance from the funeral pyre and the dead man it held. The look in her eyes made it clear she would come no closer. She had been a babe in arms when the Mad King was exiled to Dragonstone and had enjoyed the family trips to the island no more than Jae and his siblings. Viserys stood by his wife, stone faced.

Jae and his family stepped away from the pyre and a septon stepped forward. The septon eulogized the dead king, extolling the mercy of the Seven and preaching that only the Father Above could sit in judgement of Aerys Targaryen. Jae supposed that was true, but he couldn’t imagine the Father Above being any more lenient in His judgement than men below. When the sermon was done, septas carrying torches swept forward. One torch they handed to Jae’s father, and then one each to Jae and his siblings. A fifth torch was offered to Daenerys. After a moment’s hesitation, during which she was given a comforting squeeze by her betrothed, she took the torch. Viserys snapped the torch out of the hand of the septa.

With his torch held high, Jae’s father took the place of the septon and addressed the crowd.

“Aerys Targaryen was my father. He was the blood of the dragon, he was born of fire and unto the fire will he return.”

Father placed his torch amongst the logs of the pyre, they caught quickly. Aegon stepped forward and followed his father’s example and Rhaenys followed after him. When it came to be Jae’s turn, Jae thought on his father and Aegon’s argument during the carriage ride. As he tossed his torch on his grandfather’s pyre, he filled his mind with thoughts of his family: his father, his brother, his aunt who he loved like a sister and his sister who he loved as something more. He thought of his grandfather Rickard and his uncle Brandon, slain on the Mad King’s orders, and the war which followed their deaths. The Mad King had built the one thing Jae cared about the most, his family, but had also nearly destroyed it.   

Viserys was next, lingering at the side of his father’s pyre for a moment before dropping his torch. Daenerys was the last, only coming close enough to the burning pyre to toss her torch into the flames before retreating to Robb’s side. As a family, they stood and watched as the man who nearly doomed their kingdom and their dynasty was consumed by flames. The septas raised their voices in a beautiful song. Not a single tear was shed. As the fire grew, the funeral party departed. In the end, only the silent sisters were left to watch over the burning corpse of the Mad King Aerys.

A modest feast awaited them in Dragonstone’s great hall, but Jae found he didn’t have much of an appetite. It was perhaps the quietest feast he had ever been a part of. He wanted to ask his father for permission to leave early but knew it would be seen as improper. After the last course was served, the king gathered his children and lead them from the hall. Shadowed by the white cloaks, they made their way to Aegon’s Garden. The state of the garden shocked them all.

“This garden was planted by Queen Rhaenys before the Conquest,” Rhaenys said, covering her mouth.

“Your grandfather didn’t care much for its history when he burnt it,” said Ser Jaime.

Life once thrived in Aegon’s Garden: a thick carpet of grass, wild flowers of every type emitting sweet scents, and tall trees which seemed like they would stand forever. Now, Aegon’s Garden was a picture of desolation, all the vibrant colors and scents replaced with black soot and grey ash. Jae and his siblings had often sought the solitude of Aegon’s Garden in their forced visits to Dragonstone. It was the only place in the castle free of their grandfather’s paranoid ramblings. The rustling of leaves sounded to the Mad King like the whisperings of assassins and he refused to set foot in the garden.

“When did this happen?” Father asked.

“A week before he passed,” Ser Jaime answered.

Rhaenys ran her hand along the blackened husk of a tree. The bark crumbled away beneath her fingers. “He couldn’t leave this world without taking something beautiful with him.”

Father sighed. “My father was a troubled man. The last fifteen years have largely been spent bringing the realm together after he nearly tore it apart. I thought it fitting that we should discuss our family’s future on the day we laid our past to rest.” He turned to Aegon. “You and Rhaenys will be married in three turns of the moon, after your sixteenth nameday. Henceforth, you will take your place as the Prince of Dragonstone.”

Aegon shot Rhaenys a pointed look which she pointedly ignored.

Father turned his attention on Jae. “Jaehaerys, when your sixteenth nameday comes you will marry Margaery Tyrell.”

Jae was taken aback. “I will?”

His father nodded. “Lord Tyrell and I settled on the arrangement just before news of your grandfather’s passing reached the capital. We thought to delay the announcement until after the funeral.”

 _The daughter of the Lord of Highgarden forced to settle for the Bastard Prince? Oh how the little birds at court will titter over that development,_ Jae thought bitterly.

“Congratulations, Jae,” Rhaenys said. “It is a good match.”

“The arrangement must have come at quite a price,” Aegon said, blunt as ever.

Rhaenys shot a glare at her brother, but Jae couldn’t summon any anger at Aegon’s words given their veracity. As a legitimized bastard and last in the line of succession, he was not an attractive match for the only daughter of a Lord Paramount. His father must have paid quite a price indeed to get Mace Tyrell to agree to the match.

“Lord Tyrell was more than happy to marry his daughter to a prince of the blood and finally unite our families,” Father said. No one was convinced.

“Thank you, Father,” Jae said, because he didn’t know what else to say. It was a strange thing to have your future laid out before you.

Father inclined his head. “The future of our family and the future of our realm lies not in marriages and alliances, however.” He signaled and Aurane Waters stepped forward, carrying a wooden chest. Jae had not seen the castellan arrive in the garden. He set the chest before Jae’s father. Father leaned forward and placed both hands on the lid of the chest. “The future of our family lies in its past.”

He undid the clasps of the chest and opened the lid slowly. Inside lay three eggs, each as big as a man’s head. Their scaled surfaces were a vibrant array of multiple colors; one black with scarlet swirls, another cream streaked with gold, the last jade flecked with bronze.

“Dragon eggs,” Rhaenys whispered.

“One for each of you,” Father said with a nod.

Jae found himself drawn to the eggs. He reached out and touched one. It was cold and felt like stone.

“They’re fossils,” Aegon said, unimpressed.

“They are your destiny,” Father said. “The dragon has three heads.”


	2. Rhaenys I

2

Rhaenys

“What madness has possessed your father this time?” Her mother held the dragon egg to the light streaming in through the window. It looked beautiful, glittering ivory and gold in the sunlight like a jewel.

 _If only it were more than a beautiful jewel_ , Rhaenys mused as her mother turned the egg in her hands, marvelling at the way it caught the light. _A pretty dream._

One she had dreamed as a little girl, but she knew too much of history to think it anything more. The last dragon died under the reign of Aegon the Third, unfairly known as the Dragonbane. The last dragon’s eggs hatched into stunted, deformed, short lived monstrosities. That had been near a hundred and fifty years ago. Dragon eggs hence became nothing more than pretty stones passed down to Targaryen children in the futile hope that one day dragons might wake from stone. That tradition ended with the Tragedy at Summerhall, when the realm lost its king, Aegon the Fifth, and the Targaryen’s lost the last of their dragon eggs in a vain attempt to recapture their former glory.

Would her father be recorded in history as another Aegon the Unlikely, another Targaryen consumed with bringing dragons back to life? He knew the histories as well as she did, but there had been an almost maniacal gleam in his eyes when he presented his children with their dragon eggs. He seemed so certain the destinies of her and her brothers lay in those hunks of pretty stone.

Her mother gently laid the egg into the small wooden chest in which it had made the trip from Dragonstone to King’s Landing. Sitting cross legged on her bed with her large black cat Balerion curled in her lap, Rhaenys watched her mother run a finger along the scales of the dragon egg.

“The dragon has three heads,” she muttered. The same phrase her father had uttered when he presented his children with their eggs. “He told me that long ago, after I gave birth to your brother. I didn’t understand it at the time, no more than I understood half the things that came out of his mouth. By the time I understood, it was too late...”

Sensing the turn in her mother’s mood, Rhaenys spoke with a casualness she did not feel. “Don’t sound so morose, mother. They’re only pretty baubles, the gifts of a doting father upon his spoiled children.”

Her mother shut the lid on the egg’s chest and slid the latch into place. She stared at the chest in silence before she turned to Rhaenys. Queen Elia Martell was a beautiful woman still; men who wished to flatter her remarked she and Rhaenys looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. The lines at the corners of her dark eyes and the lines of silver in her dark hair showed her age, but in Rhaenys’ mind they served only to make her look more dignified.  

“And how much do you think he spent on these pretty baubles?”

“Perhaps it’s better if we don’t know.” Three dragon eggs were enough for a common man to live like a king, Rhaenys knew, and enough to turn a king into a beggar. Her father had proven to be a frugal king throughout his reign but even with all the gold he had saved she couldn’t imagine the crown’s coffers surviving the purchase of three dragon eggs in good shape.

Her mother sat on the edge of her bed with a sigh. “I’ll get the answer from him eventually.” She reached and scratched Balerion between his ears. The attention hungry cat rose from Rhaenys’ lap and padded to her mother’s side to receive more petting. “What did your brothers think?”

“You know Aegon. He thought the whole thing was stupid. Jae had to stop him from throwing his egg into the bay on the trip home.”

Her mother laughed. “And Jae?”

Rhaenys hesitated. There had been a look in Jae’s eyes as he gazed at the dragon eggs, not the gleam of madness she feared lurked in her father's eyes but a look of longing. It only made sense the one of her father’s children who bore no Targaryen features would long most for proof of his heritage. No one could call him the Bastard Prince when he carried the strongest possible proof he deserved the Targaryen name.

“Jae is in love, I think. He spent more time with his egg than his betrothed.”

The announcement of Jae’s betrothal and the date of Rhaenys and Aegon’s nuptials had been the night before at a feast which had awaited them when they returned from Dragonstone. Her mother had taken it about as well as expected.

“More of your father’s follies,” she muttered. In her silent anger she pushed Balerion off the bed. The old black cat stalked away with his tail twitching. “I have tried and tried to make him see sense. You should be married to Renly Baratheon. We need a way to tie the Stormlands to the crown. There are still too many of them who raise their cups to the memory of Robert Baratheon.”

Rhaenys had heard this argument before, her mother often came to her to vent her frustrations after she had an argument with Father. “And Margaery should be Aegon’s bride, not Jae’s,” she added. “The Tyrell’s have long been our staunch ally, but they will not take being spurned lightly.”

It was an open secret amongst the court that Mace Tyrell wished to make his daughter a queen. The method by which he sought to accomplish his goal depended on who you asked. Common sense dictated he had angled to betroth Margaery to Aegon, though some whispered he had tried to convince her father to set aside her mother and take his daughter to bride. Whatever plan he had pursued, her father had denied him. To make matters worse, he had offered him his second son -- a legitimized bastard, last in the line of succession -- as a consolation for his efforts.

Mother sighed. “The worst part is your father’s not blind to the loyalties of the Stormlords, he’s just done nothing to ameliorate the problem. Neither is he blind to the ambitions of Mace Tyrell. In fact, he feared Lord Tyrell would seek to marry Margaery to Renly after denying him a match with Aegon.”

Rhaenys began to understand. “So, a second son is offered to prevent a potentially dangerous alliance, but what reason would Lord Tyrell have to accept such an offer given Jae’s questionable birth?”

“Your father gave Lord Tyrell permission to build a new castle in the Reach. It’s to be Jae and his bride’s home once it’s built. ‘A new seat of Targaryen power in the South,’ your father called it.” Her mother’s voice dripped with derision.

“And who is to pay for the construction of this new castle?” Rhaenys suspected she already knew.

“On that matter your father refused to answer, but I can’t imagine Lord Tyrell would have agreed to the deal if all the funding for the castle’s construction came from his own coffers.”

Rhaenys began to list items, counting them off on her fingers. “Three dragon eggs, a new castle, a royal wedding to which he’s invited the majority of the realm and a tourney in celebration of said wedding. To pay for all that…” she paused. “Has Father discovered a hidden cache of gold and neglected to tell anyone?”

That earned her a humorless chuckle from her mother. “If only.” She rose and stood at Rhaenys’ window. “To make matters worse, your father neglected to include Doran in the negotiations.”

“Uncle Doran can’t be happy about that.”

“Of course he’s not. And, as always, it falls to me to mediate between the two. I’m due to lunch with them within the hour.”

“Would you like me to join you?”

Her mother’s smile said she appreciated the offer. “Thank you, but no. I’ve another task in mind for you.” Her sigh said she didn’t enjoy asking favors of her daughter. “Your father expects me to join him when he holds court today, but I suspect I’ll not have the energy after having to contend with him and your uncle. Would you join him in my stead?”

Rhaenys nodded. “I’ll be queen one day, despite your protestations. I suppose I should grow accustomed to acting as one.”

Her mother stepped away from the window and bent to place a kiss atop Rhaenys’ brow. With a small smile, she said, “You’ve been acting as a queen since the day you were born.”

With that said, she bid her daughter farewell and made to leave so she could prepare for lunch with her husband and brother. As she opened the door to Rhaenys’ room, she found Jae in the corridor outside with his hand poised to knock. Shock briefly registered on his face before he dropped his hand to his side.

“Your Grace,” he said, all formal courtesy. “I hoped to speak with Rhaenys.”

She regarded Jae coolly, no doubt thinking the worst. “Your brother waits without, Rhaenys,” she called over her shoulder before bidding her husband’s son a curt farewell and stepping out into the corridor. Jae stepped into Rhaenys’ room with a look of relief on his face.

“I suppose she trusts me now,” he said.

“She trusts me, at the very least.”

Which came as a surprise to Rhaenys. She and Jae hadn’t been alone in the same room together since Ser Barristan had come across them kissing in the Godswood and dragged them to her mother for punishment. The queen had threatened the silent sisters for Rhaenys and the black brothers for Jae if they were ever again caught in a compromising situation, a threat which Jae had taken more seriously than Rhaenys. It wasn’t her mother’s threat which kept her out of her brother’s arms, but a promise she had made to herself. Her mother had enough to worry about without worrying about her daughter dishonoring herself by sneaking around with her half-brother.

Despite herself, her mind turned to the last time they had truly been together: the feel of his arms about her, the feel of his lips on hers, the quiet way he said ‘I love you.’ Alone together for the first time in months, her promise to herself seemed a silly thing. What hope did a promise stand against love?

 _Perhaps I am not worthy of Mother’s trust after all,_ she thought, feeling ashamed of herself.

Jae’s mind seemed to be filled with carnal thoughts, based on the way he stared at her. Then, perhaps ashamed she had caught him staring, he busied himself looking everywhere in her room but at her. His eyes lighted upon a gown tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair. He strode over and picked it up, holding it at arm’s length, perhaps hoping it would provide adequate distraction from his indecent thoughts.

“This isn’t your gown,” he announced.

A grin came across her face. She couldn’t help teasing him, though she knew she shouldn’t. “Do you profess an intimate knowledge of all of my gowns?”

He dropped the gown and turned to her with a small smile. “It’s not your color.”

He wasn’t wrong, she tended to attire herself in the Dornish fashion, with colors of bright orange, yellow, red and white. The gown he espied was of a pale lilac. “It’s Dany’s,” she explained. “She slept in my room last night.”

All jollity fled from Jae’s face. “Because of Viserys?”

Rhaenys nodded. “He and his wife have taken the room next to hers and she doesn’t feel comfortable sleeping so close to him.”

“I suppose she’ll have to get used to having him back in the castle,” Jae muttered. Rhaenys knew Dany wasn’t the only one unhappy to have Viserys back in the castle.

“I suppose we all will.”

At breakfast that morning, Arianne had announced she and her husband would not be returning to Dorne, electing instead to stay in King’s Landing until Rhaenys’ wedding; a surprise few had taken in good humor. The last few years with Viserys in Dorne had been pleasant: Dany had come out of her shell and Rhaenys and her brothers hadn’t had to deal with his constant harassment. He had been almost agreeable on the trip to Dragonstone, but Rhaenys couldn’t imagine that pattern of behavior continuing over the next three months.

“I don’t imagine you came to my room to discuss Daenerys and Viserys.” She hoped the change of subject would improve her brother’s mood, however briefly. She knew what he wished to discuss and could see no way either of them were in good humor at that conversation’s end.

He stepped across the room and sat on the edge of her bed. He reached out and grabbed her hand. She thought to pull away but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“We’ve scarcely had a moment to talk since grandfather’s funeral. I’ve gone over the words I wished to say to you over and over again in my head, but the more I think about them the more foolish they sound.” He squeezed her hand. “I want you to know nothing has changed for me. I don’t care about your wedding or mine. I love you. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

His words came out in a rushed tumble, but there could be no doubt to the sincerity behind them. She reached up and placed her hand on the side of his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb. _What a sweet, beautiful fool you are, my dragonknight_. She wanted to kiss him, but feared she wouldn't be able to stop. So, instead, she spoke.

“What sort of life do you imagine we could have together?”

“I don’t care, so long as we are together.”

“That alone will be difficult enough to achieve, with me being on Dragonstone with Aegon and you being in the Reach with Margaery.”

“We’ll find a way.” He was so earnest it broke her heart. As always, if fell to her to make him see sense.

“Shall we run away together, then? Bribe a septon and be wedded and bedded before anyone can stop us?” He reached up to grab her hand, his brow furrowed. “Shall we dishonor our dear brother so, and our whole family besides?”

“I don’t care about honor. Not yours or mine, nor anyone else’s. Not in this regard.”

She steeled herself for this next part, because she knew it would hurt them both. “Neither did Father, when he ran away with your mother.”

He leaned back as if struck. She felt quite stricken herself. He rose and turned away from her, finding a fixed point on her wall to stare at, hands clenched at his sides. “Do you hope to drive me away by being cruel?”

“I only hope to make you see the truth.” She stood and made him turn to face her. She cupped his face in her hands and looked up into his eyes, dark and grey as storm clouds. “I love you, Jaehaerys, the same as you love me, but what good will come of our love? All we accomplish in attempting to be together is hurting the ones we love.”

He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her close. “Aegon will understand. Father will find him a new bride. Your mother will endure as she always has.” He grinned. “Meanwhile, we’ll be away. In one of the Free Cities, perhaps?”

“The Free Cities?” she questioned, though she knew she shouldn’t indulge him.

“I hear Braavos is beautiful. We can sell our dragon eggs and live off the gold for the rest of our lives.”

“It’s a pretty picture, brother, but let me show you the truth.” She pulled away from him, as far as she could get with his hands still about her waist. “I will marry Aegon and you will marry Margaery. One day, Aegon will be king; I will sit beside him as queen and you will serve ably as his Hand. We will still love each other then as deeply as we do now, but as we reflect on the peaceful lives we’ve built for ourselves, we will know we made the right decision in not being together.”

He leaned in to kiss her, she turned her cheek to avoid him. “We’ve both painted fanciful pictures of the future,” he said, hurt, “but only one of us has convinced themselves their version of the future is the truth.”

He left her then, striding out of her room without another word.

In his silent wake, she struggled to keep her tears from falling. She was due to join her father at court later and it wouldn’t be proper to show up with eyes red and puffy.

She made it to the throne room without shedding a single tear, dressed in a gown as orange as the setting sun. The tiara she wore glinted in the sunlight streaming in through the hall’s windows; it was gold and ruby studded, a gift for her sixteenth nameday which she rarely had occasion to wear. Her father already sat atop the pile of twisted metal which comprised the Iron Throne as she stepped into the hall, looking every inch a king: regal in his posture, his golden circlet shining with magnificence. Great black dragon skulls decorated the walls of the hall, the biggest placed above the Iron Throne, glaring down at any who dared approach it. Gold cloaks lined the hall and the white cloaks stood in formation around the throne’s dais. Nobels filled the gallery, having nothing better to do than listen to the king treat with his petitioners.

A high-backed wooden chair had been placed next to the Iron Throne’s dais. She took the chair without word, assuming her father had been expecting her in her mother’s stead. Her father looked down at her and at her nod he signaled his guards to open the hall’s doors and let the petitioners in.

A seemingly endless parade of petitioners streamed into the great hall, kneeling at the foundation of the Iron Throne and airing their grievances to the king who sat upon it. It was important to her father that every voice in the kingdom be heard, so every person who seeked an audience with the king, no matter how petty their problem, was allowed. They complained about the price of food, the presence -- or lack -- of the City Watch. They complained about the lack of fish in the Blackwater Rush or the lack of game in the kingswood. They complained as if her father was some god who could fix all of their woes. Perhaps that is what they thought of him. She sat through it all, never once voicing her own opinion, never once being asked for it.

A merchant, incensed her father refused to consider lowering the fees on ships docking at King’s Landing, was lead off by the gold cloaks, flinging curses all the while. Once he had been lead from the great hall, Father told a joke which sent those assembled to tittering and the man was forgotten. The herald raised his voice to announce the next petitioner.

“Melisandre of Asshai, Priestess of the Lord of Light!”

The woman stepped into the great hall, quieting the din of those gathered. Dressed in robes of red silk, she approached the Iron Throne with such grace she appeared to be gliding. If she were less than six feet tall it was only by an inch and her slender frame did not preclude her from having full breasts and shapely hips. Her hair was the color of burnished copper, her skin as pale as milk, her eyes as dark as obsidian. She drew the eye of every man in the hall as she stood before the Iron Throne and favored the king with a deep bow.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice rich and deep. She had the slightest trace of an eastern accent, but otherwise spoke the Common tongue without issue.

If there was one man in the hall not bewitched by the priestess’s beauty it was the king, who looked upon her with skepticism. “My father kept a priest of R’hllor in his court.”

“Thoros of Myr,” the priestess said. “He was a good priest once, but he fell away from the Lord’s light. He drank himself to death not long after you banished him from court, if you’re curious.”

“I am not,” Father said evenly. “If you’ve come to convert me, I’m afraid you’ll have no better luck than Thoros had with my father. Your god of fire interests me not.”

“I come to speak not of conversion but of your destiny.” The priestess turned and addressed those gathered in the throne room. “We have supped on summer a long time, but soon comes cold and darkness and the night that never ends. In our hour of greatest need, a hero shall step forth and draw forth a burning sword to banish the darkness. That sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who wields it shall be Azor Ahai reborn.” She turned back to the king and knelt before him. “All hail King Rhaegar, First of his Name, born amidst salt and smoke to make the world anew, the prince that was promised.”

Silence met her proclamation. Rhaenys turned to her father to see him with a most unusual smile upon his face.

“I've heard your words before, priestess,” he said. “They were delivered to my grandfather by a woods witch from the Riverlands. It seems to me you’ve forgotten a part, however. The prince that was promised will be born amongst salt and smoke and a bleeding red star shall herald his birth. There was salt and smoke aplenty at my birth, but no red star.”

 _The red star came at Aegon’s birth,_ Rhaenys knew, having heard the tale from her father's lips. _But then where was the salt and smoke?_

“The nature of prophecy is flexible,” the red woman said, rising to stand. “Regardless, I have asked the Lord for a vision of His champion and I have seen you in the flames: a man atop a pile of twisted metal choked with roses and vipers. I have seen other things as well: water tainted with blood, the seven-pointed star burning, a great black dragon casting its shadow over this land. Summer is coming to an end, Your Grace, along with the peace you’ve built.”

Father raised a hand and two gold cloaks came to stand at Melisandre’s side. “Thank you for the warning, I will consider it with all due concern.”

Seeing her time was at an end, the red woman bowed. “You cannot ignore your destiny, Your Grace. I will leave for now, but there will come a time when you wish you had me at your side. When that time comes, I will be waiting for you.”

She turned and left, escorted by the gold cloaks.

“I think that will be all for the day,” Father said. The gallery cleared out, no doubt eager to spread the red woman’s words about the castle. The gold cloaks marched out of the throne room, herding the petitioners who hadn’t gotten their chance out of the castle. In the end, only Rhaenys, her father and the kingsguard remained in the throne room.

Rhaenys looked to her father and saw him leaning forward with his hand steepled, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. She saw the look in his eyes and thought back to her mother’s words:

_What madness has possessed you this time, Father?_


	3. Daenerys I

3

Daenerys

The sky was clear and blue, the wind a gentle breeze, but a storm brewed within Daenerys. She worked her horse into a gallop and imagined herself to be the storm: her mare’s hooves echoing through the plains like thunder, the snap of the reins cracking like lightning. The countryside became a blur of green and blue, the shouts of her companions drowned out by the wind rushing through her ears. For a brief, blissful moment the world outside her saddle ceased to exist. She was the wind: swift and fierce. The illusion broke when her mare began to lag. She pulled back on the reins to spare the poor beast.

Breathless, she looked back at King’s Landing and felt a swell of disappointment. She had hoped the city would be farther away, nothing but a speck on the horizon. Instead it loomed as large as ever, casting its shadow on the surrounding countryside. Not that it mattered. Any distance she could put between herself and the city was only temporary. She would be dragged back to the Red Keep before long.

Robb rode in her wake, an easy smile on his face. He was humoring her, she knew he could have easily kept pace. Ser Richard Horpe followed behind Robb, riding a courser as white as the cloak he wore. The knight of the Kingsguard had dark hair and even darker eyes. He might have been handsome in a roguish sort of way if not for the scars and pockmarks which marred his face.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to be rid of me,” said Robb as he pulled alongside her.

“Luckily, you do know better.” It was the Red Keep she spurned, and the people within it: Viserys who leered at her anytime they crossed paths, Rhaegar who ignored Viserys’ uncouth behavior, Aegon who turned a deaf ear to her pleas for help, Jae and Rhaenys who were so wrapped up in each other they were ignorant of everyone else. In the past few weeks she had taken every opportunity to avoid spending time in the Red Keep, yet the castle still loomed.

“How far do you think we could get before our white shadow drags us back to the castle?” asked Robb under his breath. Ser Richard gave the young couple their space, riding far enough back that Robb’s words did not reach him.

“Not far, I’d imagine,” Dany answered with a small smile. If there was anyone who understood her desire to be free of the Red Keep it was Robb. He had been born in Riverrun, raised in King’s Landing, but he belonged in the North. Every passing day brought him closer to his sixteenth nameday, closer to the day he would finally be allowed to go North and take his place as Lord of Winterfell. She saw the restlessness grow within him day by day.

“To Riverrun, at least,” he argued playfully. “From there we could borrow a ship from my uncle and sail upstream. Once we’re past the Neck, no one would be able to follow us.”

“You’ve put some thought into this.”

“More than a little.” He winked.

“Not nearly enough. You’ve vastly underestimated Ser Richard if you believe he would allow us out of sight of the city walls.”

Robb feigned offense. “It’s me who’s been underestimated, my lady. No man ahorse could ever hope to match me.”

His bravado made her laugh. He always knew how to make her laugh. “It’s a pretty dream.”

“It will be more than a dream soon enough.” He grabbed her hand. She met his earnest blue eyes. “I will be Lord of Winterfell and you will be my lady. We’ll marry before a heart tree, just like my mother and father.”

This was a fantasy they had played out before, the lines rehearsed. “And if I wish to marry in a sept?”

“Then I will have one built, the first in Winterfell’s storied history, all for you.”

It was a pretty dream, indeed, but Dany couldn’t imagine reality being so sweet. Resentment for House Targaryen still ran high in the North thanks to the actions of her father and brother: Lords Rickard and Brandon murdered by her father, Lord Eddard sentenced to the Wall by her brother. Robb spoke glowingly of the day he would take his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell, but how willing would his bannermen be to accept a lord who didn’t know his lands or people, a lord raised in the south who brought with him a Targaryen bride? She couldn’t help but wonder if Robb, behind his bravado, felt the same.

“Do you ever fear we will not be accepted in the North?”

“Never.” His tone held none of the bravado of the boy she loved and all of the self-assuredness of the man she would one day marry. “I may have my mother’s look but the North is in my blood. I may not know my land or my people as well as my uncle Benjen, but I will come to know it. _We_ will come to know it. From the Neck to the Wall, from the Stoney Shore to the Grey Hills, we will come to know every inch of land, every lord and lady, every one of the smallfolk. And as we come to know them, they will come to know us, and they will love us.”

A smile grew on her face throughout his monologue. How did he manage to instill her with confidence when she felt only uncertainty, to make her laugh when she felt no joy? How had the gods saw fit to bless her so?

“I love you,” she said, so quiet she wasn’t sure he heard.

“I know,” he said with a grin. The glare she leveled him with made it clear she was not amused. The grin melted off his face. His words came even quieter than her own, but still she heard them. “I love you too.”

She might have kissed him if it weren’t for the watchful eyes of Ser Richard.

Instead they rode on in amicable silence towards the kingswood, their destination for the day. Dany had prepared a lunch for them and Robb insisted he knew the perfect clearing in which to enjoy it. As they rode he regaled her with the story of how he had felled his first stag in these very woods. It was a story she had heard a dozen times before, every other word an embellishment.

“If you ever grow tired of being Lord of Winterfell, you have a future as a mummer,” she said after he finished his tale. She knew he was acting a fool. What would that make her if she played along?

“You doubt me, my lady?”

“Jae told me the truth of your tale. He told me you missed your first shot and that, having missed, you chased after the stag with abandon. He said you were lucky you didn’t fall and break your neck.”

He shrugged. “I prefer my version of events.”

She laughed and they rode on, arriving at the promised clearing before long. This, at least, wasn’t one of her betrothed’s fanciful boasts. The clearing was perfect for a picnic, a secluded island of verdant grass amongst the sea of trees. They dismounted; Robb grabbed the thick blanket they had brought with them and set it upon the grass, while Dany retrieved the basket containing their lunch and began laying out the items. As they ate, Ser Richard patrolled the clearing, hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them thought to offer him anything.

Once they had their fill of food and summer sun, they packed up their lunch and mounted their horses. As they were preparing to depart, their attention was drawn to the approach of another group of riders. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Dany recognized the figure in the lead. With his pale silver hair and lanky frame it could only be her brother Viserys. He rode tall in the saddle, dressed in a fine black doublet embroidered with the crimson three headed dragon of House Targaryen. Trailing behind him were half a dozen Martell guardsmen, bedecked in the lively colors of their house: red and gold and orange.

The party rode into the clearing and came to a halt. Viserys’ cruel lilac eyes lighted upon Dany and Robb, he wasted no time in advancing on them.

“What a pretty pair you make.” He smirked, each word dripping with mockery. “The very image of young love.”

Dany kept her head down to avoid Viserys’ gaze, not rising to his ridicule. Robb, on the other hand, had long since grown past the age when he allowed anyone to mock him, especially Viserys. “I’m surprised you are able to recognize love when you see it, my prince, considering you’ve never experienced it yourself.”

The smirk fell from Viserys’ face. He shot Robb what he must have thought was a withering glare. “You’ll watch your tongue around me, boy.”

Robb grinned. “So long as you do the same.”

Viserys’ lips curled in an ugly sneer. He brought his horse close to Robb’s until only inches separated them. They locked eyes, neither daring to look away from the other. After a long, tense moment, Viserys threw his head back and laughed, a high pitched, haughty sound.

“Oh, now I see the way of things.” He turned back to his Martell guardsmen, who met him with uneasy smiles. “The boy puts on a bit of height, puffs out his chest and thinks himself a man.” He whipped around to face Robb, a lunatic gleam in his eyes. “Shall I tell my men how you used to run, screaming and crying, to hide behind your mother’s skirts? All because I dared tell you the truth about your traitorous kin?”

Robb’s grin fell into a frown, his hands tightened on his horse’s reins and red began to creep into his face. Viserys had been awful to all of them growing up, Robb in particular had been forced to bear taunts about his traitorous father and the violent deaths of his grandfather and uncle. Dany sought the words to placate her betrothed but found herself lacking.

“Shall I tell them your thoughts on their princess the night your marriage was announced?” Robb’s voice was quiet, dangerous. “‘A Dornish whore,’ you called her, ‘unfit for your seed.’”

Now it was Viserys’ face which grew red. His voice came out in a hiss. “I will not abide slander from the likes of you!”

They weren’t lies, Dany knew but didn’t say. She couldn’t find her voice.

Viserys’ hand fell to his hip where his dagger sat. Dany recognized it as the valyrian steel blade Rhaegar had gifted him on his wedding day, the dragonbone hilt polished to a sheen. Robb’s hand fell to his own dagger, he gripped it tight.

Dany’s heart began to race. She looked to Ser Richard for help, he gripped the hilt of his sword. If he intervened, it would be on Viserys’ behalf.

“Stop it, the both of you!” she shouted, realizing it fell to her to establish order.

Viserys’ head snapped around to her, his eyes full of hate. “Now you deign to speak to me.” He ignored Robb now, guiding his horse close to her’s. “In the years since I left King’s Landing every letter I’ve sent to you has gone wanting for a response, since my return to the castle you’ve spurned my presence.”

Her insides squirmed under his hateful gaze. Unbidden, memories flooded into her mind of the night Rhaegar had announced Viserys’ betrothal to Arianne Martell. He had come to her room that night, stinking of wine, and climbed into her bed, rambling about how she should be his bride and not ‘some Dornish whore.’ He groped at her, intent to take her then and there, to claim her for himself. She screamed so loud Ser Barristan came barreling into her room. She had never seen the kindly old knight so angry as when he dragged Viserys out of her bed.

Rhaegar had been furious, but he cared more about how Viserys’ actions would reflect on the realm than their effects on Dany. He feared his Hand would learn he was marrying his daughter to a monster, that the realm would learn their father’s madness still lived on in their brother. So, he swore Dany to secrecy and put Viserys on a ship to Dorne the next day.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping Robb hadn’t seen how scared Viserys made her. _There’s nothing he can do to me here. I am not a little girl and I am not afraid._ She turned her thoughts into a refrain and willed herself to speak.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten the circumstances of our parting, brother?” Her voice trembled as she spoke. She wished she could forget, had spent the last five years trying to forget.

Viserys seemed taken aback, his anger forgotten. “After all these years you would still hold that against me?”

“I will always hold it against you, until my dying breath.”

He seemed stung by her words, for which she was grateful. _I wish you could feel that and more,_ she thought. _So much more._

He pulled away from her, leading his horse back a few paces. He opened his mouth as if to say something and then just as quickly snapped it shut. Without another word, he kicked his horse into a gallop and fled from the clearing, leaving his Martell guardsmen to scramble after him.

Feeling relieved, Dany turned to Robb and found him sulking and red faced, his hands gripped tight around his horse’s reins. He stared after Viserys’ retreating form.

“You shouldn’t have come between us,” he said without looking at her.

“I didn’t want it to come to violence.”

He turned stiffly to face her. The look in his eyes scared her. “I did.”

 


	4. Richard I

4

Richard

“Depravity!” the septon roared to the crowd. “That is what King Rhaegar intends to subject us to. Brother wed to sister in holy matrimony, in the Great Sept of Baelor, by the High Septon himself! It is a mockery, brothers and sisters, a mockery of decent, gods fearing people like you and I, a mockery of the Great Sept, a mockery of the Most Holy and, most importantly, a mockery of the gods Themselves! For it is made clear in _The Seven-Pointed Star_ that brother shall not be wed to sister, nor father to daughter, nor mother to son.”

The grey robed septon was a man of excessive fatness, his chins wobbling with every exclamation. He jabbed a thick a finger towards the Red Keep sitting high atop Aegon’s Hill. “Yet for centuries, the Targaryen kings have flown in the face of the laws set down by the Seven and we have allowed it. Why, I ask you?” He paused, allowing his question to settle over the crowd. “There will come a day, brothers and sisters, when you stand before the Father for judgement, and on that day he will ask you why you stood by and did nothing while King Rhaegar made a mockery of the gods and their laws. And when he finds you unable to answer, he will send you screaming down to seven hells where you will burn for eternity!”

Another pause, the crowd waited with bated breath. “Will you burn in hell for the sins of your king?”

The crowd, not insignificant in size, answered with a resounding, “No!”

Durther up the street, Ser Richard Lonmouth, Commander of the City Watch, watched and listened from atop his horse as the septon continued to proselytize. He was a hard looking man with piercing, light blue eyes set in a rough hewn face

“You said there are others?” Richard asked of Jacelyn Bywater, who sat next to him atop his own steed. Bywater served as the captain of the Mud Gate, a post which Richard had elevated him to just two years past. Tall and square jawed, he had the look of a knight, but coming from a poor house he had never been able to afford his knighthood, even after two years of officer’s pay.

“A dozen, at least, all over the city. We think he’s the ringleader. He’s the most popular by far, none of the others can draw a crowd like him.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“I first heard of it two weeks past the announcement of the royal wedding. I discussed it with the other captains and they didn’t think it a big enough problem to bother with. I deferred to their judgment.”

“Septons openly denouncing the king and you all thought it not worth bothering with?” Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. _Curse you for saddling me with these dullards, Rhaegar. Curse you a thousand times over._

Bywater at least had the decency to look ashamed. “As I said, I deferred to the judgement of my superiors. Only recently have the septons started to attract such large crowds, which is why I thought it prudent to bring it to your attention.”

“The prudent move would have been to bring this to my attention weeks ago,” Richard growled. “Gather some men, as many as you deem necessary, and break up these crowds. Drive these septons off the streets and make it clear anyone caught disparaging the king or the royal family after this day, septon or otherwise, will find themselves on the wrong side of a cell.”

Bywater hesitated. “The smallfolk won’t be happy to see gold cloaks chasing septons off the streets, nor will the men be happy to do it.”

The royal wedding was weeks away, already lords and ladies had traveled to the city to attend, with many more arriving in the coming weeks. What would they think of the city, of the Watch and it’s commander, of the king himself if they saw septons and smallfolk openly voicing dissent in the streets? He had no time to worry about the worries of the smallfolk or his men.

“The smallfolk have the attention span of a fly. They’ll be mad at us today, tomorrow they’ll be mad at the fishmongers and the day after that they’ll be mad about something else. As for the men, remind them it’s not the septons who pay their wages.” He turned his horse about, intent on returning to the barracks. “Once it’s all done, escort the fat one to my quarters.”

He didn’t look back, but he heard the sound of Bywater hurrying to obey.

Later, in his solar in the Watch’s west barracks, Richard went through his ledger with a goblet of Dornish red at his side. Rhaegar had given him command of the City Watch three years past, after the former commander had been proven to be embezzling gold. Richard’s task had been made clear by the king: to purge the City Watch of all corruption. He had taken on the task to the best of his ability, cutting corrupt men from the Watch’s roster until he was satisfied the corruption had dropped to acceptable levels; he wasn’t fool enough to think himself capable of eliminating it entirely.

Pruning the Watch of corruption had left him with less than fifteen hundred men, enough to see that order was kept under most circumstances, but with the royal wedding approaching and people flocking to the city -- lords and ladies and smallfolk alike -- his men were being stretched thin. He had brought his concerns to Rhaegar a week past and the king had promised to talk to his master of coin about securing funds for new recruits. He had heard nothing since, so he turned now to his ledger, hoping to find some area where costs could be cut to make funds available. What he found was he barely had the coin to pay the men he had.

A knock sounded at his door, thankfully providing distraction from the discouraging ledger. His squire announced the arrival of Jacelyn Bywater and Richard allowed him in. Bywater came to stand before his desk and took off his helm, holding it beneath his arm. His forehead shone with sweat, yet he seemed no more worse for wear.

“Everything went well, I hope?” Richard asked.

“The crowds dispersed with little trouble. The septons were more stubborn, but we got them off the streets without having to resort to violence.”

“And the fat one?”

“He waits without. He was the most agreeable of them all.”

“Send him in.” Bywater turned to obey. “You did good work,” Richard added. The captain stopped at the door, gave a brief nod and left the room, returning only to usher the fat septon in and shut the door behind him. The rotund man looked about Richard’s solar with a placid smile on his face.

“Is this what the City Watch has come to, commander, harassing and threatening men of the Faith? I thought the Watch was due for better days under your guidance.” The septon ponderously made his way to the seat before Richard, the chair creaked beneath his mass.

“Most men of the Faith don’t preach insurrection against their king.”

“Insurrection?” The septon feigned shock. “You do me a disservice, ser. I seek not to incite, only to make the truth plain. The laws of the Seven were set down millennia ago, and they are as clear now as they were then: to wed brother to sister is a sin most foul.”

“The Targaryens have wed brother to sister for centuries, King Rhaegar is the product of such a union.”

“And do you not think the Faith protested that union, as they have protested every incestuos union for centuries?” The septon looked down on him as if he were a child. “Always the nobility has turned a deaf ear to our protests, so we have instead turned to the commons, in hopes that their voices will join ours in voicing our displeasure.”

Richard took a long drink of his wine. “Would you like a drink, Septon…?”

“Martyn,” the septon provided. “And, I must decline. Temperance is a virtue, you know.”

“And gluttony is a sin.”

Septon Martyn laughed, a rich, hearty sound. He slapped his hand across his wide belly. “We all have our vices. I pray to the gods every night to forgive me mine. Every sin can be forgiven, we need only ask.”

“Even the sin of incest?” For the first time, the septon’s smile faltered. “The High Septon himself, the gods’ voice on this earthly plane, has blessed the union of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Who are you to question his divine wisdom?”

“The High Septon is not infallible.” Martyn’s tone became defensive. “He is only a man, after all.”

Richard fought to not roll his eyes. _It’s clear this is not an argument to be won with words._ He reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a bag of gold. He dropped it on his desk. The septon’s smile returned, taking on a more dastardly appearance.

“Is this what we’ve come to, commander?”

“We all have our vices, as you said.” Richard poured another cup of wine. “I imagine it takes coin to stay that fat, more than the sept provides, I’m sure. So, you take to preaching on the street, and the smallfolk throw copper pennies at your feet, mayhaps the occasional stag. The more inflammatory the message you preach, however, the larger the crowd that gathers, the more your purse bulges at the end of the day, the fatter you get.”

The septon’s smile grew. “You believe you have it all figured out, commander?”

Richard was growing tired of this man with his fat face and his smiles. “Make no mistake about it, Martyn. I’m offering you a choice. Take the gold and tell your brothers to keep their thoughts about the wedding off the streets. If my men catch you or any of your ilk on the streets again, it won’t be me they’ll drag you to, it’ll be a cell.”

“I suppose I’d be doing you a favor, keeping such inflammatory speech off the street.” Martyn weighed the gold in his hands. “A large favor.”

This time Richard did roll his eyes. _Does the man ever intend to stop playing coy?_ “And I’d be doing you a favor letting you walk away with a bag of gold instead of a blackened eye.”

The septon laughed again. “You’ve made yourself more than clear, commander.” Without another moment’s hesitation, he secreted the gold away in his sleeves. “And I suppose my vices extend beyond gluttony.”

Richard wished he could say he was surprised, but he had known the septon’s character the moment he’d watched him on the street. He was a crook who didn’t believe his own words, but was good at making other people believe them. Now his talent would serve Richard’s purposes by keeping his cohorts  -- some of whom might have been genuine in their protests -- off the streets. It was one of the first lessons he had learned on the job: threats went a long way but gold went farther.

“You can let yourself out,” he said to the fat man.

Martyn didn’t wait to be told twice, scurrying out the room as if afraid Richard would change his mind.

Once again alone in his solar, Richard took another long drink of wine.

Later that evening a summons came from the king and Richard rode to the castle with all due haste. The Sword of the Morning stood guard outside the king’s solar, looking as if he had been chiseled from marble in his brilliant white armor, the hilt of his legendary greatsword _Dawn_ jutting over his shoulder. _If only we could all age so well_ , Richard mused. Ser Arthur’s jaw line and ebony locks were the envy of men half his age and he cut a figure that would make the Warrior Himself jealous. Richard felt shabby in comparison, his hair stringy and brown, his mail dull and without flair.

“He’s expecting you,” Ser Arthur said, opening the door to let Richard pass and pushing it shut behind him.

Rhaegar’s solar was near dark, the only source of light a sole candle burning on his desk. The king sat behind his desk, bathed in the light of that candle, hunched over a book. With a sigh, Richard strode across the room and set about lighting a fire in the hearth. Once the room was filled with the soft, flickering glow of firelight he sat opposite Rhaegar, satisfied. _Near two decades since I was his squire and I still live to serve the man._ For his part, Rhaegar had not once reacted to Richard’s presence or the new source of light.

After several long moments, Rhaegar marked his place in the book and closed it. His indigo eyes rose to meet Richard’s for the first time. “My apologies, Richard. Thank you for your patience.”

“You shouldn’t read in such poor lighting, you know. It’s bad for the eyes.”

The king’s lips curved in a brief smile. He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “There was more light when I started. I suppose I lost track of time.”

“A good read then?”

“Fascinating, in fact.” He rose to return the book to his bookshelf, which Richard knew comprised only a small portion of his vast collection. At a glance, Richard caught the title of the book along its leather bound spine: _On the Faith of the Red God R’hllor_. He frowned. He had been at court with his gold cloaks the day the red priestess had preached to the king about his destiny. It seemed the woman had bothered the king more than he had let on that day. When confronted with something he didn’t understand, Rhaegar’s response was always the same: to educate himself on the subject to the fullest extent. It seemed the red woman had presented him with a quandary he intended to solve.

“How fares the city?” Rhaegar asked as he retook his seat behind his desk.

“There are septons in the streets denouncing you for marrying your son and daughter together.”

The king frowned. “I trust you handled it.”

Richard nodded, sparing Rhaegar the details. The king often balked at the sordid details of life as the City Watch commander, such as bribing silver tongued septons to keep their mouths shut. He had given Richard the job with the aim of clearing the Watch of corruption, ignorant to the fact that it was impossible. Richard had been ignorant at first too, but he had learned quickly.

“I’ll talk to the High Septon besides, with the wedding approaching the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms will be on King’s Landing. I can’t have septons denouncing my children and I in the streets.”

The current High Septon spent his days knelt in prayer and his nights knelt between a whore’s legs. Richard had spied him more than once at Chataya’s brothel, fooling no one in a hooded cloak. Richard doubted the Most Holy would spare much thought for Martyn and his ilk.

“Aside from treasonous septons, you’ve nothing else to report?” the king asked.

“Nothing worth wasting your time with, save my desperate need for more men.”

“I brought the issue to Lord Tyrell, but as I suspected the crown can’t afford new recruits at this time.” Rhaegar at least had the good grace to look apologetic. “Lord Tyrell posed an alternate solution to your problem, however. His son Garlan is journeying to King’s Landing for the wedding. At Lord Tyrell’s orders, he will bring five hundred Highgarden men with him to temporarily bolster the Watch’s ranks.”

_More roses. The last thing this city needs._ “Thank you, Your Grace, and send my thanks to Lord Tyrell, as well.”

His sarcasm gave Rhaegar cause to frown. “I already have my wife and her brother filling my ears with disparaging words about Lord Tyrell, must I bear the same from you? Speak plainly, ser.”

“You allow him too much,” Richard said. “And the more you allow the more he seeks. How long do you imagine it will be before he’s whispering in your ear about how it was his son who maintained order during the wedding, his son who should be commander of the City Watch?”

Richard had little love for his post, but he would be damned if he would allow a rose to replace him.

“And do you think me so feeble minded as to be so easily swayed by the whisperings of Mace Tyrell?” asked the king. “Lord Tyrell is ambitious, that I’ll not deny, but all my lords are ambitious. Lord Tyrell, at the least, has long been a valuable ally. Without him, the war would have been lost.”

Richard bristled. “Mace Tyrell sat beneath the walls of Storm’s End feasting with his knights while men fought and died to keep the Seven Kingdoms out of Robert Baratheon’s hands.”

Rhaegar held onto his placid facade but years as the man’s friend had given Richard a knowledge of his moods. Anger lurked beneath the surface. “Tell me, Richard, to whom should I show favor if not Lord Tyrell? The Stormlords, half of whom still revere Robert Baratheon as some kind of god? The Westermen, who sat idly in their castles throughout the war’s duration? Mine own good-brother, who sent only half his strength to the Trident?”

“Prince Doran had reason to be wroth with you.”

“I suppose he did, but think on the consequences had the battle been lost. What would have happened to his beloved sister then? To his niece and nephew?”

“Robert Baratheon was many things, but he did not lack for honor. He wouldn’t have harmed your wife and children.”

Rhaegar stared at him for a long moment. Few would dare speak positively about Robert Baratheon in the king’s presence. He spoke quietly. “You shared a few drinks with the man and you think you know his character? You didn’t see him on the Trident, spitting and raging, swinging that great warhammer of his. The man was a beast, a monster, and he hated me more than anything. He would have stopped at nothing.”

“I saw him on the Trident,” Richard said, offended. “I was there, if you’ll recall.”

“Yes, you were. You and thousands of others, for all it mattered.” The king’s voice took on a faraway quality. “In the end it came down to the two of us, circling each other in the waters of the Trident, like something out of a song.”

The battle had been the farthest thing from a song Richard could imagine. The press of stinking, sweating, bleeding bodies, the shouts and the screams. He remembered cutting his way to the ford, the sloshing grey waters tainted red and teeming with men -- some living, some dead. In the center of the ford they clashed, Baratheon with his great warhammer, clad in grey plate, his helm adorned with a rack of antlers and Rhaegar in his armor as dark as obsidian, the three headed dragon of House Targaryen studded across his chest in rubies. Men fought and died around them, but none dared interfere with their duel.

“It was a close thing,” Richard said, because the silence had lingered too long and he felt the need to say something.

Where other men might have taken offense, Rhaegar nodded. “Closer than anyone likes to admit. Had I been a second slower that warhammer of his would have caved in my chest.”

Richard had been one of the few to see the prince deliver the final blow. Rhaegar had taken a fierce blow to the shoulder from Baratheon’s warhammer and sagged in his saddle, his grip on his sword loosening. Baratheon, sensing his impending victory, raised his warhammer in both hands to deliver the killing blow. In that moment Rhaegar struck, regaining his composure and thrusting his sword in the gap in Baratheon’s armor under his arm. Baratheon’s body went rigid and for a moment he sat in his saddle as still as a statue. Then, the warhammer slipped from his hands and fell to the waters of the ford. He slid from his saddle not a second later, the prince’s sword still embedded in his side. He struck the waters of the ford with an impact which sent reverberations throughout the entire battlefield.

“I still see him in my dreams,” the king said, voice barely above a whisper. “Every night he comes for me. I had never known cause to fear a man before, but I feared Robert Baratheon that day.”

Richard said nothing, even as the silence stretched on.

After a long while, Rhaegar spoke again with a half-hearted smile. “I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you. Not to open old wounds, certainly. I need you to escort me outside the castle.”

“That sort of thing usually falls under the purview of the Kingsguard,” Richard said, thankful for the change in subject. He disliked thinking about the war and liked talking about it even less.

“I need to be inconspicuous; the Kingsguard attracts too much attention.” The king rose and went to his chest. He rifled through its contents for a moment before pulling out a drab cloak. He threw it on. He pulled out another cloak and tossed it to Richard.

Richard discarded his gold cloak and replaced it with the drab one. “Can I ask the purpose of this secretive evening excursion?”

Rhaegar pulled his hair back and pulled up his hood. “Not everything can be learned from books. Sometimes we have to go about in the world to find the answers we seek.”

Richard shook his head and pulled up the hood of his cloak. He knew better than to press further, Rhaegar would have given him a plain answer if he had wanted to. The king walked to the door of his solar, but hesitated before opening it. He knocked three times, softly. Three knocks came as a response and the door opened to Ser Arthur.

“Make haste,” he said as Richard followed Rhaegar out into the empty corridor.

The king followed the words of his most trusted knight, leading Richard through the least trafficked corridors in the Red Keep. Their path lead them to the stables, where Richard placed a silver coin in the palm of a plump, young stable boy and sent him on his way. He quickly prepared horses for himself and the king and before long they were at the castle gates. A gold coin and the guard on duty let them pass without any questions. Rhaegar kept his head down all the while, the shadows of his hood swallowing his face.

Once out of the castle, Rhaegar took the lead again, guiding Richard toward Rhaenys’ Hill, where the decrepit Dragonpit sat. The Dragonpit proved not to be their destination, instead the king lead him to an old stable where they stopped and tied up their horses. The king went to the back of the stable and, after a moment of poking around, moved a half empty barrel and dusted off the floor beneath to reveal a trapdoor. Without a word, he took a torch off the wall and climbed down into the trapdoor. Richard followed, closing the door behind him and climbing down the ladder into a slanted earthen tunnel.

He was brimming with questions as he followed the king, but he dared not ask. He knew Rhaegar would enlighten him when he felt it necessary. Their journey through the tunnel was brief, it ended at another ladder. Richard followed the king up and they found themselves faced with a wooden panel. Rhaegar moved it aside to reveal a set of tall double doors. He opened those and they stepped out into a large circular room. The room was mostly dark.

Richard looked behind them and saw it was not a doorway they had passed through, but a tall wardrobe. A large, canopied bed sat in the middle of the room and the smell of incense hung heavily in the air. The muffled sounds of carnal pleasure came from the floor below.

Richard had been in Chataya’s brothel -- both as a customer and in his duty as commander of the City Watch --  often enough to recognize his surroundings.

_Has he brought me to see a whore?_ Though he knew Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage was strained, Richard had never known the king to seek out another woman’s bed. Not since the northern girl.

A large fire burned in the hearth and a woman sat before it. She rose and faced them. She was tall and shapely and beautiful, but she was no whore. She bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” said the red priestess. “I have been expecting you.”


	5. Rodrik I

5

Rodrik

The squawking of seagulls woke him. He opened one bleary eye and just as quickly shut it, mumbling a thousand curses as sunlight lanced through his skull. _Where the fuck am I?_ he thought. Blindly, he sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. The wooden floor felt rough beneath his feet. The room swayed gently and the pungent stench of fish and salt wafted through the air. He was on a ship, that was obvious enough. Now the question became: _Why the fuck am I on a ship?_ The answer to that question would have to wait, as his bladder felt likely to burst at any moment, and he refused to piss his own bed. Rodrik Greyjoy may have been a drunk, but he had standards.

He opened his eyes, slowly this time, and spied the chamber pot in the corner of the room. His eyes adjusted to the light, which did nothing to lessen the feeling that an axe was buried in his skull. He lurched to his feet, his manhood swinging freely between his legs, and stumbled to the chamber pot.

He was a large man, surpassing six feet in height, his arms and legs thickly corded with muscles, his belly round and protruding. He blamed the ale for that last part. His hair was long and black and he had a thick beard to match. His weathered face, tanned and creased like old leather, made him look older than his thirty years.

Making it to the chamber pot without issue, he let loose with a mighty stream. He leaned against the wall for support and gazed out a nearby porthole. The ship was docked, a small, bustling town rested past the dock and a great castle sat on a hilltop overlooking the town. He had the feeling he had been here before, but for the life of him could not remember.

“Where the fuck am I?” he asked aloud this time.

“Seagard, m'lord.” The voice startled him, sending his stream off target. He looked over his shoulder and saw a woman in the bed he had come from, as naked as he. She wasn’t very pretty, her nose too big for her face, her tits too small for her body. Her pale skin was mottled with bruises here and there and marred with scratch and bite marks. He grinned to recognize his own handiwork.

“Seagard?” he questioned, turning back to the chamber pot. Memories from the night before began to resurface. His grandfather, Quellon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Isles, had sent him to the greenlands to serve as the Iron Islands’ evoy to the royal wedding. He and his grandfather had quarreled because the old man had refused to allow him to sail his own longship to Seagard.

“Seagard is our ally now,” the withered old cunt had wheezed. “But centuries old animosities are hard to forget. They will not take kindly to the sight of Ironborn longships in their harbour.”

Angry with the old man, he had gone to one of his favorite alehouses to drink the night away. At some point, he must have boarded a ship and brought the ugly wench with him.

Finished with the chamber pot, he made his way back to the bed. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Myra, m’lord.” She seemed to hope her name would jog his memory. When it didn’t she continued. “I served you at the alehouse. I told you I had never been to the greenlands before and you promised to take me.”

Rodrink grunted. “Well, here we are.” He pulled on his breeches and looked about the cabin for his doublet. “How long have we been docked?”

“Since morning.”

He didn’t find his doublet under the bed, but found an empty wine pitcher instead. Cursing, he rose to his feet. “I told the captain to wake me when we arrived.” His memory was coming back to him clearer now.

“He tried, m’lord, but you struck him a fierce blow and he fled the room.”

Rodrik laughed heartily, his belly shaking. He found his doublet hanging from a scone and pulled it on. “Find him and tell him to send word to the castle that I've arrived.” He pulled on his boots and laced them up. “And then find me something to drink.”

The woman jumped to obey, throwing on her shift and her gown and scurrying out of the room. She returned a few minutes later with a pitcher of wine and bearing news that a messenger had been sent out. He had nearly finished the pitcher and was considering giving the girl another tumble beneath the sheets when the captain of the ship tentatively knocked on the door and announced that men from the castle waited on the docks.

He strode to the deck, free of his headache thanks to the wine. The serving girl did not follow.

“I thought you wanted to see the greenlands?” he asked.

“I’ve seen enough of them already, m’lord, I’ll be staying on the ship and returning to Pyke.”

He shrugged. He had thought to keep her with him, she could have proven useful if a better bedmate couldn’t be found to accompany him on the long road to King’s Landing, but he didn’t care enough to force her to stay at his side.

Out on the docks, he recognized who had been sent to greet him. Though he had grown taller, his little brother Theon still looked like the boy he remembered from his youth, skinny and dark of hair and eyes. Though at least in his youth his little brother had passed for an Ironborn. Now he looked like a greenlander, dressed in a fine velvet doublet and crisp leather boots, with arms and hands which looked as if they had never worked an oar and a face which looked like it had taken too few punches. That last part Rodrik intended to correct, at least.

“Little Theon.” He pulled his youngest brother into a fierce hug, squeezing him with all his might. “Or do I have to call you _Ser_ Theon now? Forgive me if I don’t bow and scrape in your knightly presence.”

Theon had been sent to Seagard near ten years ago to serve as Lord Jason Mallister’s ward and squire, part of their grandfather’s grand scheme to ingratiate House Greyjoy with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Little Theon had taken well to life amongst the greenlanders and had earned his knighthood a year past. Rodrik had roared with laughter when the news reached Pyke, imagining his skinny little brother kneeling in a sept while some grey robed septon smeared oils on his forehead and mumbled some words about his soft, greenlander gods.

“Just Theon will suffice, brother,” his little brother said, trying to regain his composure, a small smile on his face which made it seem like he was in on the joke. “Might I introduce you to Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son and heir.”

The lordling seemed to be of an age with Theon, with sandy blonde hair, watery blue-grey eyes and an aquiline nose. He had the type of looks that made greenland maidens swoon, the type of looks Rodrik despised.

“If you’ll follow us, my lord,” Patrek said, “My father has had rooms prepared for you in the castle.”

Rodrik scoffed. “Couldn't be bothered to come greet me himself?” He cut off whatever defense Patrek had of his father. “No bother. Tell your lord father I appreciate his hospitality.” That sounded like something his grandfather would have wanted him to say, though not in such a snide tone. “But I've no desire to stay in his castle. If my little brother would be so kind as to escort me to this town’s finest brothel, assuming his knightly honor isn’t offended by such an establishment, I’ll gladly take up room there.”

Theon’s smile widened. “Follow me, brother.”

If the brothel Theon lead him to was the best Seagard had to offer, Rodrik felt pity for the men of the town. More likely, his little brother had thought himself clever and lead him to the worst brothel in town. Rodrik cared little. The brothel’s rates were cheap and with the coin he’d brought with him he was easily able to keep himself on a steady supply of wine and women.

The next day, when Theon came to collect him, he wisely sent his pimple faced squire to wake him. Rodrik sent the squire to his knees with a punch to the gut for the offense. Once he had dressed and settled his debts, and his morning headache had been cured by another dose of wine, he and the squire -- whose name he didn’t bother to learn -- met Theon outside the brothel. Together they rode to the town’s gates, where they met Lord Jason, his son and a score of Seagard knights and their squires. Lord Mallister had the look of a seasoned warrior, tall and broad and hard of face, his age made clear by the smattering of white in his brown hair.

Theon made the introductions.

“Well met,” Lord Jason said, extending his hand. Rodrik squeezed the man’s hand with all his might. Lord Jason’s eyes narrowed and he returned the favor, his grip like iron. They released after a long moment. “My son tells me you chose to room in the town. I’m sorry my accommodations weren’t to your liking.”

“The fault lies with me.” Rodrik remembered the lessons in courtesy his grandfather had forced on him as a child. They had lasted only until Rodrik had wrestled the maester to the ground and forced his head into a privy. What little he had learned had been washed away by time and drink, but he remembered enough to know that refusing a lord’s hospitality was a grievous offense. “I should have informed you beforehand that I am a man of certain sensibilities.” He pulled out one of his many wineskins and took a long drink. “Besides, that castle of yours was raised to keep my people out, I wouldn’t want to sully its reputation.”

“Indeed,” Lord Jason said through clenched teeth. It was clear he disliked Rodrik already, not that Rodrik minded. Most men he met disliked him, he had long since grown used to it. “Though those times are long past. Your grandfather has done much to amend the relationship between our peoples.”

His words painted a pretty picture, but his eyes told a different tale. Mayhaps over the years Lord Mallister had grown used to Theon’s presence, but it was clear an ingrained hate for the Ironborn still lurked deep within his heart. _What a fun trip this will be,_ Rodrik thought, taking another swig from his wineskin.

“Well said, my lord,” he said. “I look forward to growing the relationship between our houses on this journey.”

The Lord of Seagard nodded, seemingly tired of conversing with Rodrik already. He gave the order to ride and they set out together on the road to Riverrun. At Riverrun they would meet up with his little sister Asha and her lordly husband. From there they would travel to the crownlands via rivership and make their way to King’s Landing.

They camped for the night beneath the ruins of an ancient, ruined castle atop a hill. The greenlanders called it Oldstones and talked about it in such reverent tones Rodrik assumed it must have been some sort of sacred place. He half remembered a song about a girl from Oldstones, heard in one port or another. ‘ _Jenny of Oldstones with flowers in her hair.’_ Might be he had heard the song from Maron. His fool of a younger brother had long been infatuated with songs.

“There’s no quicker way to get a maid to drop her skirts than to sing her a pretty song,” he had always said. He had won that pretty wife of his with a song, he always claimed, and dozens of other maidens besides. Rodrik had never cared much for songs, he had his owns ways of winning over maidens.

While the greenlanders set up camp, Rodrik explored the ruins with the last of the sunlight. All that remained of the castle was a tumble of old stones spotted with lichen. Wild, waist high brown grass and ash trees had overtaken the castle’s walls and courtyard. Exploring the ruin with his wineskin in hand, he stubbed his toe into a hard bit of stone. Looking down, he realized he had stumbled into the sepulcher of a long dead king, half hidden by the tall grass. Mumbling a curse for his aching toes, he studied the lid of the sepulcher, which had been carved in the likeness of the man who had been laid to rest there. Time had smoothed out the stone man’s features, leaving no discernable characteristics save a beard.

“Fuck you, whoever you are,” Rodrik muttered. He pulled out his manhood and let loose with a stream of piss on the base of the sepulcher.

“You have the honor of pissing on King Tristifer of House Mudd, Fourth of his Name, King of Rivers and Hills.”

Tucking his manhood away and lacing his breeches, Rodrik turned to see Theon ambling toward him, his ever present smile firmly in place. “Friend of yours?”

“A hero to the greenlanders. If Lord Jason saw you pissing on him, he would probably have your cock cut off.”

Rodrik shrugged. “I’m sure I’m not the first to piss on him.”

Theon came to stand at his side. “They say King Tristifer fought in a hundred battles and lost only one. How many of those battles do you suppose he fought against the Ironborn?”

“The one he lost, at least.” He took a long pull from his wineskin and purposefully did not offer his little brother any. “Does your rambling about this ancient dead man serve some purpose, or did you only wish to let me know that you’ve become a greenlander in truth and worship their soft heroes?”

Theon’s smile lost a little bit of genuineness. “The point is that while King Tristifer might have been our enemy, the same way Lord Jason’s father might have been our enemy, and his father and his father and so on and so forth for thousands of years, things are different now. Lord Jason is not our enemy, but if you keep carrying on around him the way you have been, he’ll have your head on a pike.”

“Better men than him have tried, little brother. Much better men. Men with salt in their veins and iron in their heart. Not that you would know anything about that.”

Theon bristled. “I’m no less Ironborn than you.”

“Try looking in a mirror and telling yourself that.” Rodrik laughed. “When I was your age I was fighting pirates in the Stepstones, I had already slain a dozen men and bedded twice as many women.” Rodrik felt the heat begin to rise up in him. “What do you know of being Ironborn? You wear that golden kraken on your chest, so finely stitched, but until you’ve captained a longship with the kraken on your sails and seen men flee before you, you know nothing of being Ironborn.”

“I’ll not stand here and be insulted.” Theon began to march away.

Rodrik grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, striking him across the face with a hard blow and sending him crashing to the ground. As Theon made to rise, blood in his mouth, Rodrik stood over him with a fist raised. “If you’ll not stand to be insulted then grovel on the ground like the greenlander you are.”

Theon rose to his feet, free of his smile for the first time since Rodrik had arrived in Seagard. It was that change which kept Rodrik from hitting him again.

“Since you came here to teach me a lesson, let me return the favor,” he said. “This notion Grandfather’s filled your head with about making friends with the greenlanders is bullshit. What’s more, what little he’s accomplished will soon be undone. He’s an old man, soon to die, what do you think Father will do with all his plans and schemes when he returns to take the Seastone Chair?”

Their father, Balon, had exiled himself five years past. He had been wroth with their grandfather for arranging marriages with greenlanders for his children. The final straw had been when Asha was married to a soft, little greenland lord. After that he took a crew of loyal men and sailed for the Summer Sea, vowing never to return so long as Grandfather sat the Seastone Chair. In the meantime, he had turned to piracy and crowned himself the King of the Summer Sea, a terror to the ships and coastal villages of the east.

“It might be Grandfather will find himself a new heir,” Theon said, raising his chin. “One who will continue his work.”

The implication was clear.

Rodrik struck his little brother again, a blow to the stomach which sent him keeling over. Theon jumped to his feet quickly, attempting to tackle him to the ground. Rodrik easily overpowered him and flung him back down.

“I’ll give you some credit,” he said, “There’s a vestige of iron left in you.”

He had long since suspected his grandfather would name one of his siblings heir instead of giving the Seastone Chair to their father. He had also long since suspected he would not be the one chosen. Theon’s words and the confidence with which he spoke them confirmed his suspicions. He crouched next to Theon who, having knocked his head against King Tristifer’s sepulcher, seemed incapable of rising to his feet.

“Hear my words, little brother, and know them to be the truth,” he whispered. “I will see you dead before I see you sit the Seastone Chair ahead of me.”

The same went for any who would try to strip him of his birthright.


	6. Rhaenys II

6

Rhaenys

“Obsidian,” Aegon named the horse, because he lacked imagination.

The beast was black, to be sure, its coat so dark it seemed to swallow the sunlight streaming through the throne room’s windows. Its mane had been dyed red, which Rhaenys found more than a little ostentatious. It was a destrier, a steed meant for war, tall and strong and noble in its bearing, not a sideshow at a mummery. What fear would Aegon strike into his foes riding into battle on a steed with a colored mane? She kept her thoughts to herself as she presented the horse to her brother. It was a gift from their mother for his sixteenth nameday, but as she had fallen ill the day before and lay bedridden still it fell to Rhaenys to present the gift in her stead.

A round of applause went up from those assembled to partake in the nameday celebration, over a hundred lords, ladies, and knights who sat arrayed throughout the throne room. The royal family sat at a high table set up beneath the Iron Throne’s dais. Aegon sat in the middle of the table; Father, Jae, Dany and Viserys occupied the seats to his right, the latter three joined by their respective partners: Margaery, Robb and Arianne. Uncle Doran sat to Aegon’s left along with the rest of Father’s small council: Lord Jon Connington, the master of laws; Lord Mace Tyrell, the master of coin; Lord Monford Velaryon, the master of ships; and Lord Varys, the master of whisperers. The Kingsguard stood in a row behind the table.

“A better gift than I deserve,” Aegon said once the applause had quieted. Usually stoic and reserved, he sounded more princely than Rhaenys had ever heard him. She wondered if he had rehearsed his lines to make a good impression on the people he would one day rule. “I am truly blessed by the gods to have such a loving sister.”

_It’s Mother’s gift,_ she wanted to shout. Aegon knew as well as she, but to thank their mother before the crowd would be to remind them of her absence. She curtsied beneath her brother’s praise and returned to her seat between Father and Jae, receiving a kiss on the cheek from Aegon along the way. Obsidian was lead back to the stables by the Red Keep’s master of horse.

Jae rose and walked around the high table to stand before it. He signaled for the throne room’s doors to be opened and a man entered: short and portly, brown skinned, bald headed and grey bearded. He carried a sheathed longsword, its scabbard fine black leather banded in silver. When he reached Jae, he dropped to one knee and presented the sword. Jae took it from him and drew the blade, holding it up for all to see. He strode to the high table and presented it to Aegon hilt first. From where she sat, Rhaenys could see the intricate work which had gone into the sword: the crossguards forged into the shape of dragon wings, the hilt into two long, intertwining dragon necks. The heads of the two dragons met to form the pommel, a fat ruby set between their snarling fangs.

Aegon stood and took the sword from his brother. He raised it to his eyes and stared at his reflection in the blade’s polished steel.

“It is my finest work,” said the man who had delivered the sword in a thick eastern accent. “Only valyrian steel would serve you better.”

Aegon accepted the scabbard from Jae and sheathed the sword, the rasp of metal on leather echoed off the walls of the hall.

“I am unworthy of such a gift,” he said.

“There is none worthier,” Jae said.

A round of applause came from the guests. Jae returned to the high table, receiving an embrace from his brother before taking his seat.

Father rose and came to stand before the high table. At his arrival, the blacksmith stood and clapped his hands three times, loudly. The doors to the throne room opened once again and a dozen serving boys came through, carrying six heavy, wooden chests between them. They lowered their chests to the ground before the high table and opened them. Father reached into the first chest and brought forth a helm, wrought in steel as black as obsidian and crested by a three-headed dragon. Rubies glittered in the eyes of each dragon.

“As a boy you asked to wear my armor,” Father said. A titter ran through the crowd. “Now, as a man grown, I give you a suit of your own. I pray it keeps you safe should you ever find yourself on a battlefield.”

The serving boys held the rest of the set up for display. Save for the breastplate, it was a match for their father’s famous armor, lacking only the three-headed dragon made out in rubies.

“My finest work,” the smith claimed yet again. “Better even than the set I crafted for your father.”

“You honor me, father,” Aegon said. Rhaenys noticed the tightness of his jaw. He might have dreamed of riding into battle in his father’s armor as a boy, but he was a man grown now. The idea of playing dress-up didn’t seem to sit well with him. Father seemed not to notice. “And you as well, master smith.”

The smith graced him with a bow. “The honor is mine, my prince. My name is Tobho Mott. Come to my shop on the Street of Steel if ever your arms or armor need maintenance.”

The serving boys packed the armor back into the chests and hurried out of the throne room, Tobho Mott followed after them. Father returned to his seat.

Ser Arthur came forward next and stood before the high table. “My prince, if you would join me.”

Aegon rose and strode around the table, coming to stand before Ser Arthur.

“You have served as my squire these past years, and though I have not always been there to see to your training myself, I have seen your growth with mine own eyes. Today, you have been gifted with a steed, arms and armor. Though it is no gift, there is an additional honor I would bestow upon you.” He drew his greatsword Dawn, sunlight danced along the pale blade. “Kneel, if you would receive it.”

Aegon knelt.

“Prince Aegon of House Targaryen.” Ser Arthur placed Dawn on Aegon’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Smith I charge you to be strong. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women. In the name of Crone I charge you to be wise.”

With each charge, Ser Arthur alternated taping Aegon on each of his shoulders with his greatsword. “Before gods and men, do you swear to uphold the duties I have laid before you?”

“I do,” said Aegon.

Ser Arthur removed the greatsword from his shoulders. “Then rise, Ser Aegon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.”

Aegon rose. The applause was thunderous.

Aegon returned to his seat a sworn knight and the festivities continued. Many of the lords and ladies who had come to the celebration had brought gifts of their own. They showered him with more weapons, swords and shields and spears and bows, by the end of it all he had a veritable armory of his own. Books he received as well, many of which Rhaenys planned to add to her own collection. Aegon cared little for scholarly pursuits and wouldn’t notice them missing. Gold and jewelry were laid out before him also, which Rhaenys knew interested him as little as the books. He put forth a gracious facade through it all.

Once the gifts had been delivered, servants entered the hall to take them away. Then came more servants to serve the first course of the celebratory feast. Fifteen more courses followed, one for each year of Aegon’s life. Lacking an appetite, Rhaenys was glad when the feast drew to a close. Aegon stood and addressed his crowd of well wishers, thanking them for their gifts and assuring them once again how blessed he was to receive them before allowing them to disperse.

Those seated at the high table filtered out the throne room through a side door, Rhaenys hurried to follow after Aegon. “You should go see Mother,” she said, at her brother’s shoulder. “To thank her in person for her gift.”

“I will see her when she is well,” Aegon said without looking at her. “For now, she needs rest.”

Rhaenys grabbed his hand, pulling him to a stop. He swung around and met her angry eyes, looking accosted. “What she needs is to see her son on his nameday.”

He pulled his hand roughly from hers. “I will see her when she is well,” he reiterated forcefully. “Until then I’ve business to attend to.”

“What business?”

“I am newly knighted, in case you’ve forgotten, and newly knighted squires must hold a vigil in a sept. I am off to the Great Sept of Baelor, where I shall remain until sunrise.”

Aegon stalked off, considering the matter settled. Rhaenys stood and watched his back disappear down the corridor. This vigil was only another in a long line of excuses. He never went to see their mother when she was ill. It scared him to see her so, though he was loath to admit it. When they were children it was always Rhaenys’ bed he sought, climbing in of a night so she might hold him and tell him Mother would be fine. He was too old to come to her for comfort now, so he buried his fear behind stoicism and excuses.

Frowning, she marched to her mother’s bedroom. Ser Rolland Storm stood guard outside the door.

Inside, the curtains were drawn, leaving the room near dark. Grand Maester Gormon sat at her mother’s bedside, the wooden chair creaked beneath his ponderous weight. He laid his hand across her mother’s forehead, held it there a moment, then pulled away and muttered to himself. His words were lost to Rhaenys, standing near the door.

Hearing her enter, Gormon looked to her with kind green eyes, almost patronizing in their sympathy. He had a plump, cheerful face to go along with his plump, gluttonous body. His head was completely shaven, but he allowed himself a beard: short, bushy and grey. He rose with some difficulty and came to stand before her.

“Fret not, princess,” he said in his grandfatherly tone. “Your mother needs only rest. On the morrow, she will be hale enough to stand and see you wed.”

_You said much the same thing yesterday,_ Rhaenys thought.

“Thank you, Grand Maester,” she said, because she wanted him to leave.

He offered her a small bow. “If you have further need of me, send word.”

The door swung shut behind him. _What need would I have of you?_ _You who has seen to my mother’s health for near fifteen years and never been able to make her truly healthy._

She knew she was being unfair, there wasn’t a maester in the world who could fix what ailed her mother. Born a month premature, it was a miracle she lived to suffer from poor health considering she had barely survived infancy.

Stepping gingerly, she came to her mother’s side and found her with her eyes closed and her hands clasped over her midsection. Seeming to sense Rhaenys’ presence, her eyes flickered open and she stared up at her daughter with a tired, half-lidded gaze. A pained smile came across her face.

“I feel as though I spent half your childhood abed with one sickness or another,” she said, her voice weak. “Yet every time you come to stand at my bedside with the same look on your face, fraught with worry. It’s as if no one ever told you it’s the mother who should worry so over the daughter, not the other way around.”

“It’s worry which lead to you this predicament,” Rhaenys said. Her mother had been seeing to last minute preparations for her and Aegon’s wedding when she collapsed from exhaustion, saved from dashing her head against the floor by the timely intervention of Ser Jaime Lannister, who had been standing guard. She was rushed back to the castle in a litter and the Grand Maester called for. Rhaenys, lunching in the castle gardens with Arianne and her children, had rushed to her mother’s side as soon as the news reached her.

“And where will worry lead you, daughter? Will you spend your whole life worried about me?”

“If the gods are good.”

Her mother chuckled. “If the gods were good I would have been born robust and healthy.”

“But you are not.” Rhaenys took the seat the Grand Maester had occupied and held her mother’s hand. “So, please, stop overexerting yourself.”

“It is a mother’s duty to see to the preparations for her daughter’s wedding,” her mother said, offended. “Since I’ve only the one daughter, I don’t intend to lie abed while someone else performs my duty.”

“Even if it kills you?”

The queen patted her daughter’s hand, almost condescending in nature. “When you're as weak as I am, you attain an intimate knowledge of your limits. I know what it will take to kill me, daughter, and preparing for your wedding…” she trailed off, her eyes drooping closed. Rhaenys feared she had slipped into unconsciousness, but after a brief moment she reopened her eyes. “I’ve survived worse. Much worse.”

Rhaenys understood the implication of her words. How taxing could planning a wedding be to a woman who had watched her husband run off with another woman, starting a war in the process?

Still, it pained her to hear her mother speak of herself so. “You are not weak.”

Her mother scoffed. “Weak of constitution, of that there can be no doubt.”

“But strong of mind and will. There are many types of strength, after all.”

“Of course, do you expect me to forget? It was I who taught you that lesson.” Her eyes began to slide closed again. It was several long moments before she spoke again. “Did Aegon enjoy himself?”

“As much as Aegon is capable of enjoying himself. He adored your gift. He named the steed Obsidian.”

Her mother breathed out a quick laugh. “He always did lack for imagination.” The mirth fell from her face as quickly as it arrived. “I should have been there to deliver the steed, to see him knighted. Your father and I discussed it with Arthur weeks ago, we both knew he was ready. Had long since been ready.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. Rhaenys wiped it away. “He knew you would have been there if you were able. He wanted to visit you, but Arthur insisted he go to the Great Sept to begin his vigil.”

“Of course.” Her mother’s eyes opened again and found her own. “You lie so prettily to me, daughter.”

Rhaenys swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. “You should rest.”

Her mother nodded and closed her eyes again. “I should. The maester’s tonic is imposing its will against mine. He told me that upon waking my strength would be returned to me, what little of it I own.”

She let her mother’s self-deprecating remark pass without issue. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

“Fear not, daughter, I’ll see you wed on the morrow.” Her mother’s speech began to slur. “I’ll be wheeled to the Great Sept in Doran’s chair if need be. It’s not the match I wanted for either of you, but I wouldn’t miss it all the same.”

Eyes closed, she seemed to sleep. Rhaenys remained, letting her tears fall in silence. How many times had her mother fallen ill throughout her youth, yet the sight of her sickly and bedridden still drove her to tears.

After a long moment, her mother said, “I hope not to see you when I next open my eyes.”

Rhaenys laughed. “And where else would I be?”

“Elsewhere. Worrying about yourself instead of me.”

Her mother’s hand slackened then, and Rhaenys knew she was truly asleep.

Not wanting to disappoint her, Rhaenys left. Her feet trod the path to Jae’s room with little thought. Though Aegon had always come to her for comfort when their mother fell ill, she had always gone to Jae. He had always found ways to take her mind off her mother’s illness, with play and games when they were younger, with kisses when they had grown older. They had spent little time together since she had spurned his affections months ago, exchanging only curt pleasantries when chance brought them together, but she needed to see him now.

She found his room empty. _Is he with Aegon, accompanying him on the first hours of his vigil?_ she wondered. _Or is he with his pretty little betrothed?_ She stamped down the bitterness which rose up with the thought. Jae and Margaery had been spending more time together in the past few weeks. To most observers they looked like the picture of young love, straight from a song. They reminded Rhaenys more of the mummeries she had adored as a girl: Jae played the part of the gallant prince, his every word a flattery, while Margaery played the blushing bride-to-be, pretending for all the world as if every word out of Jae’s mouth was the wittiest thing she had ever heard. It was a romantic sight to behold until you realised it was all an act.

Jae’s dragon egg sat out on a red velvet pillow, its green and bronze scales glimmering beneath the torchlight. She kept her own egg locked in its chest. Father had called the eggs their destiny, but Aegon had the right of it: they were naught but fossils. _Would that they were more,_ she mused with a sour twist to her lips, _I would have a dragon to ride, but more importantly. Father’s talk of destiny would prove meaningful for once._ And if Father were proven right about the dragon eggs it would lend credence to his other questionable decisions, such as marrying her to Aegon. It would be much easier for her to hold hands with her brother and say the holy vows if she knew there was a reason for it all. At least she imagined so.

She ran her hand along the egg’s scales, feeling naught but cold stone. That was how Jae found her. He showed surprise for a moment, but made no protest, quietly shutting the door and leaning against it with his arms crossed.

“Sneaking into another man’s room the night before your wedding?” he teased, though there was little mirth behind it. “Tongues will wag, sister.”

“Let them,” she said quietly, her hand and eyes remaining on the egg.

He was silent for a long moment. “How fares your mother?” He and her mother had a cordial relationship. She treated him kinder than most women treated their husband's bastards (legitimized or otherwise) but had never been a mother to him.

“As well as can be expected.” Her hand clenched, her nails scraping across the egg’s scaled surface. “Which is to say: not very well at all.”

He strode across the room and placed his hand on her shoulder. “She always recovers.”

“She always recovers.” It was a refrain from their childhood, always followed in her thoughts with: _but what if she doesn’t?_

She turned around and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Her tears flowed freely onto his doublet, her shoulders heaving as she choked out sob after sob. He gently wrapped his arms around her and held her until her sobs stopped.

“I miss this,” she murmured against his chest once her tears had passed.

“It was you who spurned my affection.”

“Your affection as a lover.” She pulled away from him to look up into his eyes. “I didn’t realize in doing so I would lose my brother.”

“Lover and brother, the two are one in the same.”

“Does it have to be that way?” It pained her to hear the pleading tone of her own voice. “Can we not go back to the way things were? Before the godswood, before we fell in love?”

Was that pity she spied in his grey eyes? “Don’t play the fool, Rhae, it’s unbecoming. You know as well as I, once the song has been sung it cannot be unsung.”

He kissed her, proving his words true. She pulled away after a while, fearful of losing herself in the moment.

“If we cannot be siblings and we cannot be lovers, what else is left for us?”

“You know where I stand.”

He leaned down to kiss her again. She moved away from him, walking past without a word and leaving the room. The hour was growing late and she intended to be well rested for her wedding.

The wedding procession left the Red Keep at noon the next day, ambling down from Aegon’s Hill on a journey to the Great Sept of Baelor. The most venerated members of the Kingsguard rode in the lead: Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell. They made an impressive sight with their white armor, white cloaks and white steeds. Rhaenys and Aegon rode after them. Rhaenys had been laced into an ivory silk gown by her handmaidens, her ruby studded tiara resting on her head, her mother’s maiden cloak flowing from her shoulders, the sun of House Martell faded and worn. Aegon wore their father’s cloak, stitched with the sigil of their house, his head adorned with an unornamented silver circlet. Father rode behind them with Jae, Dany and Viserys, each of them crowned and dressed in their finest clothes. Father’s small council rode behind him and the remainder of his Kingsguard rode behind them. The rest of the procession consisted of honored guests, lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some ahorse and some afoot.

Rhaenys kept her head held high as they descended Aegon’s Hill, trying not to think of her mother’s absence. Her mother and the Grand Maester both had been proven liars. When morning had dawned her mother had been unable to rise from her bed despite her best efforts. Gormon clucked his tongue and decreed she must spend another day bedridden, barring her even from attending the wedding ceremony in a litter, fearful that her condition might worsen outside the castle and he would be unable to properly treat her. Mother had taken the Grand Maester’s prognosis with the dignity of a queen, shedding not a single tear. Rhaenys had not yet developed such dignity and had fled her mother’s room as quickly as possible after hearing the news, not wanting to be seen crying on her wedding day.

The streets were lined with smallfolk, kept at bay by a wall of gold cloaks. More still hung from open windows, a brave few had even managed to clamber to the rooftops. They waved and cheered as the procession passed, tossing flowers and copper pennies to be trod on their path. Rhaenys smiled and waved as they passed, trying to seem as gracious as a bride on her wedding day should, hoping her outward appearance belied the dread which lurked beneath.

They arrived at the Great Sept of Baelor, a great marble structure with a dome of multicolored glass. Bells ringing in the sept’s seven crystal towers heralded their arrival. Passing by the marble statue of Baelor the Blessed, they entered the Great Sept. They proceeded through the Hall of Lamps, walking beneath lamps of colored glass, before passing through a towering set of double doors etched with the seven-pointed star to enter the sept proper. Light streamed through the stained glass of the dome, painting the white marble floors in colored light. The tall stained glass windows of the sept depicted Andal heroes who had brought the Faith to the Seven Kingdoms. Seven altars were set up throughout the sept, each accompanied by a statue representing an aspect of the Seven, wrought in marble and adorned in gold and jewels.

Rhaenys and Aegon were lead to an altar between the statues of the Mother and Father. There the High Septon awaited them with a bevy of white robed septas, a reedy old man dressed in white robes trimmed with gold, his head bedecked with a crystal crown. The guests took their seats in the rows upon rows of chairs which had been provided. Rhaenys and Aegon stood facing each other before the High Septon. Their father stood at Rhaenys’ side, there to give her away to her brother.

The ceremony began with a beautiful song from the septas, their voices reverberating throughout the sept. The High Septon said a prayer, beseeching the Father and Mother to provide them with a long and bountiful marriage. He then gave a long, winding speech about the importance of love and faithfulness, his voice dry as old parchment. Bored, Rhaenys’ eyes wandered. She noticed more than a few women in the crowd wiping tears from their eyes, Dany among them. _Would that it were you instead of me,_ she thought, but Dany would be allowed to marry the boy she loved. She spotted Jae sitting cross armed and sullen faced. _Would that it were you instead of Aegon._ She averted her eyes.

The High Septon finished his speech and it came time for them to exchange vows. Before gods and men they swore to love each other, to stay faithful to one another and to support each other through sickness and all strife until their dying days. Then came the fateful moment, the point of no return. Aegon removed their mother’s maiden cloak from her shoulders and replaced it with his own.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” he said as he buckled the cloak into place.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” she repeated.

They kissed, a brief, chaste thing, so unlike the kiss she had shared with Jae the night before. 

The High Septon proclaimed them husband and wife. The septas raised their voices in another song, the crowd cheered.

Rhaenys felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Another procession followed, back to the Red Keep where a feast awaited in the throne room. Rhaenys and Aegon sat at the center of the high table surrounded by their family. Only seven courses were served, thankfully. Mace Tyrell had proposed seventy-seven, but Father had been prudent enough to deny him. Gifts were delivered throughout the feast. Aegon received more weapons to add to his personal armory while Rhaenys received books and gowns and jewels. Her favorite gift came from her father, who had his high harp brought to the center of the throne room and played a beautiful song he had composed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard him play. The sounds of his beautiful melody filled every inch of the throne room and for a moment she was lost in the music.

She was thrust back into reality when the song ended. A less talented troupe of musicians picked up their instruments and played a jaunty tune. Aegon lead Rhaenys to the floor and they shared their first dance as husband and wife. As the night progressed, she danced with dozens of different men, each of whom commented on her beauty or how great a queen she would one day be. She never found herself in Jae’s arms, for which she was thankful. She couldn’t bear to face him. By the end of the dancing she was tired and wanted nothing more than for the day to be over. That was when the bedding was called for.

A tide of drunk, groping men washed over her and carried her to the chambers she and Aegon would share as husband and wife. They clawed at her gown and made ribald jests. Some pinched and twisted at her flesh and she slapped their hands away. They were only encouraged by her defiance. By the time they delivered her to the bedding chamber she felt more than a little violated, stripped down to nothing but her small clothes, her tiara still gracing her head. Aegon had fared worse than she, awaiting her on the edge of the bed stripped of all clothes, covering his nakedness with a blanket.

Ignoring the lewd jokes shouted through the door, Rhaenys sighed and sat on the edge of the bed next to Aegon and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Did you ever imagine we would find ourselves here when we were children?”

“It was always a possibility.”

She couldn’t deny that, given their family’s history. Maybe she had been a fool to think it would be otherwise.

After a while, the guests outside their door grew bored and left. Rhaenys lamented their departure, for now they had nothing to keep them from their marriage bed. Her heart beat so loud she was sure Aegon could hear it.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, hating how her voice wavered.

Aegon was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it was in a measured tone. “Father is young yet. We will not need to provide an heir for some time.”

She tried not to let her relief show too plainly on her face. “Thank you,” she said, placing a kiss on his cheek.

He did not turn to face her, staring into his lap instead. “I’ll never love you the way Jaehaerys loves you, and I don’t expect you to love me the way you love him.”

Few knew of the indecent nature of her and Jae’s relationship: Ser Barristan, who had stumbled across them kissing in the godswood, and her mother, whom Ser Barristan had taken them to after the discovery. Mother and Ser Barristan had not spread the tale, she and Jae had told no one. Not even Father knew. She should have been surprised by Aegon’s knowledge, but oddly she wasn’t.

“How long have you known?”

He shrugged. “Since the beginning, I suppose. We’ve barely spent a day apart since I was born, there’s not much either of you can hide from me.”

“Does it bother you, to know I would choose him if given a choice?”

He looked to her then, his indigo eyes sad. “No,” he said. “Because I know you’ve never had a choice.”


	7. Daenerys II

7

Daenerys

The collection of pavilions beneath the city’s walls seemed like a city unto itself. Near a hundred of the structures sat in orderly rows, made out of cloth and silk of varying colors, some of them standing taller than houses. Banners whipped in the wind from the peak of each pavilion, displaying the coat of arms of the knight who sat beneath its roof. Inside each pavilion, highborn knights armed and armored themselves for the tourney due to commence within the hour. Poorer knights, having not the coin for pavilions, prepared themselves beneath the pink sky of the early morning.

Dany had seen many tourneys in her time, but this one -- held in honor of Aegon and Rhaenys’ wedding -- was by far the largest.

She came to a stop outside the grandest pavilion of them all, twice as tall and twice as wide as the others, made all in black and red silk, the three-headed dragon of her house waving proudly in the wind above it. She slipped into the tent and found Aegon at its center, in the midst of being armored by Robb. Newly knighted, Aegon had no squire to see to his needs so Robb, who served as Rhaegar’s squire, had volunteered. The king would not be competing in today’s tourney thus freeing Robb of his duties.

“You look dashing, nephew,” she said, announcing her presence. Robb, tightening the straps on Aegon’s breastplate, looked to her with a smile. Aegon did not look to her at all, staring instead at the helmet he held in his hands, looking sullenly into the ruby eyes of the three-headed dragon which crested it.

“I look a fool child playing dress up in his father’s armor,” he said. “Had I the time I would have gone to the armorer and had him fashion a new set, but alas…”

“Your father would take offense to know you disregard his gift so.”

“Then he should not have given me a gift so worthy of disregard.”

“Be thankful you are allowed to ride in the tourney at all,” Robb muttered. “No matter how much a fool you look.”

Though squires of a certain age were sometimes allowed to compete in tourneys, Rhaegar had barred them from entry, needing some way to keep the number of entrants from growing unwieldy. Dany had borne witness to days worth of Robb’s sulking after the announcement had been made. He had hoped to finally showcase his skills, his ability with a lance having earned him some acclaim in the training yard.

“There!” Robb exclaimed, buckling on the last of Aegon’s armor. He paced around Aegon, inspecting his work. He stopped in front of him with his arms crossed. “Despite your misgivings, my lady love has the right of it. The look suits you.”

Aegon frowned.

Dany stood next to Robb. “It’s missing only one detail.”

“And what would that be?” Aegon asked.

“Your lady wife’s favor, of course.” He and Rhaenys had been married the day before in a ceremony which had brought Dany to tears. She felt no small amount of envy watching her niece and nephew wed in the Great Sept of Baelor, knowing her own wedding could never be so grand. At the wedding feast, Rhaegar had allowed her a cup of Arbor gold, enough to make her head spin. Intoxicated, she had made the fool decision to participate in the bedding ceremony, seeing parts of her nephew she hadn’t seen since they bathed together as children.

The blank look on Aegon’s face told her he hadn’t even considered asking for Rhaenys’ favor. What a fool her nephew could be at times.

“You were going to ask for her favor, weren’t you?”

He sighed. “I suppose I must, mustn’t I?”

“Of course you must! Come, I suspect she’s already taken her seat.”

Robb and Aegon followed her out of the pavilion, Aegon carrying his helm beneath his arm and Robb carrying his shield. They paused a moment outside the pavilion while Robb saddled Aegon’s steed. Obsidian, Aegon had named the horse. Though fierce looking, he had an even temperament, allowing Dany to stroke his snout while Robb saddled him. Once it was done, Robb took the horse’s reins in hand and the three of them joined the river of knights in glittering steel flowing toward the lists.

“Hurry up, will you!” A familiar voice barked. Dany spied Viserys standing outside his pavilion. His armor was silvered steel, his pauldrons and helm fashioned into the shape of snarling dragon heads. His heavy black cape bore a silver three-headed dragon, his personal coat of arms. The subject of his ire was Trystane Martell, his squire, who struggled to saddle his horse.

Robb glared at Viserys’ back. Dany had done everything in her power to ensure her betrothed and her brother spent as little time in each other’s company as possible. She feared when next they squabbled she wouldn’t be able to stop it from escalating to violence.  

“I don’t care how many knights you unhorse,” Robb said, “so long as you send that one flying.”

“I intend to.” Aegon had as little love for Viserys as Robb.

The lists was bordered on one side by a set of high, wooden stands from which the highborn would watch the spectacle and on the other side by an empty field in which a mass of the lowborn gathered to do the same. At a cursory glance, it seemed to Dany more had gathered to watch the joust than had come to see Aegon and Rhaenys wed.

She walked up the stands with Aegon and took her seat, watching as he approached Rhaenys, who sat next to her father and Jae in the king’s private box. Rhaenys looked resplendent, dressed in a rich red gown, her head topped by her ruby studded tiara. Jae, sitting on the opposite side of his father, looked sullen and miserable. He had drank more than his fair share at the wedding feast, needing Robb’s support to make it to his bedroom at the end of the night.

“My lady,” Aegon addressed his wife. “Might I have the good fortune to bear your favor in the coming tourney?”

Rhaenys smiled. It was not reflected in her eyes. “Of course, my lord.” She pulled a golden ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around his upper arm.

“Thank you, my lady.” Almost as an afterthought he placed a kiss on her cheek. He hurried down to the lists to prepare for the joust, seeming glad to do so.

It was odd, seeing them so awkward around each other. For sixteen years they had been brother and sister, now they were husband and wife. It was clear they were both taking the transition poorly.

Dany chose not to sit with her family, instead sitting next to Robb’s family a few rows beneath the king’s box. Robb’s mother, Lady Catelyn, was a woman whose beauty had not been marred by her years, her skin like porcelain, her hair a deep auburn which shone in the sun, her eyes the watery blue of a Tully. Her husband, Ethan Glover, sat next to her. For all his years in the south, he still had the look of a Northman: his chestnut brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, his beard thick and coarse. His eyes, a deep forest green, were his most attractive feature. He was not an handsome man besides.

Ethan had once served as Brandon Stark’s squire, to whom Catelyn had been betrothed. After Rhaegar ran off with Lyanna Stark, Brandon rode to King’s Landing to demand recompense. Ethan and a group of others rode with him. Brandon was executed, along with his father and everyone else who had ridden with him, save Ethan who languished in the black cells for the duration of the war which followed their deaths. He was not released until the Great Council stripped Dany’s father of his crown and Rhaegar ascended in his place. Rhaegar offered Ethan safe passage to Deepwood Motte, where his brother ruled as lord, but Ethan chose to remain in King’s Landing to serve as Robb’s sworn shield. Somewhere in the course of his duty, he fell in love with Catelyn and they married. Their union had borne fruit, a six year old daughter named Minisa who had been left behind with her septa in the Red Keep.

Next to Catelyn sat her sister Lysa, who shared in her sister’s features but not in her ageless beauty; her face sagging and lined, her hair dull, her eyes less vibrant. She was married to Lord Jon Connington. Unlike Catelyn’s marriage, Lysa’s marriage had been arranged by Rhaegar, who had grown tired of seeing his friend and counselor go unmarried for so long. As she had been taken as a hostage to the crown after the War of the Usurper, Lysa had little say in the arrangement. The marriage had borne no children and was unlikely to do so, as Lysa spent her days at Lord Connington’s castle Griffin’s Roost while he spent his days in King’s Landing performing his duties as master of laws.

Lady Asha, Catelyn and Lysa’s good-sister, sat next to Lysa looking more than uncomfortable. Dany imagined she had been left there by her husband Edmure, who was competing in the joust. She was an attractive woman, though unconventionally so, her black hair kept as short as a boy’s. She was dressed in breeches and a tunic which bore the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. She even wore a dagger belted at her hip, the only woman Dany had ever known to do so. She seemed to have as little interest in conversing with her good-sisters as they had with her.

A horn sounded to signal the start of the joust. The first two combatants to line up in the lists drew an excited murmur from the hundreds of smallfolk who had gathered to watch the spectacle. Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, sat ready at one end of the lists. He was tall in the saddle, his green enameled armor polished to a sheen, his helm adorned with a wrack of golden antlers. Renly had grown up in King’s Landing, taken as Rhaegar’s ward after the end of the War of the Usurper. Though the youngest brother of the titular usurper, his good looks and charming ways had earned him the love of the smallfolk, and it seemed they remembered him well.

His opponent was another who had grown up in King’s Landing as Rhaegar’s ward, Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East. Harry’s steel armor shone like polished silver, his helm adorned with falcon wings. A rich blue cape trailed from his shoulders depicting the sigil of House Arryn: a blue falcon in flight before a white moon. He was not so tall as Renly, but was broader about the chest and arms. He had enamored himself amongst the smallfolk in his time in King’s Landing as well, particularly the women. Dany knew he had fathered at least one bastard before leaving for the Vale.

Of the two, Dany was more familiar with Harry. Renly had been eight years her senior and never seemed much inclined to spend time in the company of her or her niece and nephews. Harry had been of an age with Rhaenys, however, and had often joined them in play as children. She had exchanged only pleasantries with him since his return to the castle, but she rooted for him as he and Renly took up their lances.

“An easy win for my lord,” said a voice from behind her. Dany turned about and found the speaker to be Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown. He was a fat man with a curly brown beard. His cheeks were covered in pockmarks, his nose bulbous, his eyes small and set close together. He wore fine satin clothes and a heavy gold chain about his neck with a golden tower hanging from it.

“Lord Renly takes it easy,” Ethan said, his voice gruff.

Lord Gerold stroked his beard. “Confident enough to place a wager, my lord?”

Ethan grunted. “Ten gold dragons says he takes it without breaking a lance.”

Gerold patted him on the shoulder. “We have a deal, then.”

Ethan won, in the end, though Harry made it a close thing. He and Renly made three passes on each other, with Renly unseating him on the fourth. The jousts continued on from there, with Ethan and Gerold betting on most of the matchups. Ethan won more than his fair share, and it seemed to Dany that Lord Grafton had a lot of coin but not a lot of sense. Though he continued to lose, he never once seemed perturbed.

To Dany’s surprise, Viserys acquitted himself well, unhorsing Hosteen Frey in his first bout and defeating Quentyn Martell in his second. Aegon performed just as well, unhorsing Edmure Tully in his first tilt -- Catelyn gave a rueful shake of her head while Asha tried not be caught smiling -- and Horas Redwyne in his second.

Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan lined up against each other in the lists, which caused another excited murmur to run through the crowd. Their last joust had been the stuff of legends. After the death of the previous Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, Rhaegar had named Arthur to the position. Arthur had politely declined, claiming the position should go to Barristan as the most venerated member of the order. When Rhaegar offered the position to Barristan he declined, claiming the position should go to Arthur as the most skilled member of the order. Rhaegar left it to them to settle the matter, and after a brief argument they decided to settle it with a joust. They broke two dozen lances against each other before Ser Arthur emerged victorious.

Their second tilt was not so dramatic, with Ser Arthur unhorsing Ser Barristan on their sixth pass. He went on to defeat Ser Robar Royce in his second tilt and Lord Yohn Royce in his third, easy victories both.

Ser Theon Greyjoy drew some interest from the crowd, being perhaps the first Greyjoy to ever take knightly vows. The interest was short lived, as the Ironborn knight was quickly unhorsed by Ser Jaime Lannister in his first tilt. Raucous laughter from Theon’s brothers Rodrik and Maron chased him from the field. Ser Jaime went on to defeat Ser Andar Royce in his second tilt and faced Ser Oswell in his third. Ser Jaime and Ser Oswell made three passes against each other and on the third pass they were both knocked from their saddles. Afoot, they settled the matter with blades instead of lances, drawing their steel and dueling in the lists. The crowd was delighted to see two knights of the Kingsguard cross steel. Before long, Ser Oswell drove Ser Jaime to his knees and forced him to yield.

The jousting continued and the sun began to fall. As night drew near, the last tilt was announced. Aegon and Viserys lined up across from one another and a hush settled over the crowd.

“My coin’s on Prince Viserys,” Lord Grafton said.

Ethan mulled it over for a moment. “I’ll not take that bet.”

Dany turned to him, scandalized. “Aegon has ridden well,” she said.

He smiled apologetically behind his beard. “Aye, that he has, but Prince Viserys has been the stronger rider today. Were they crossing swords I would put my coin on Prince Aegon every time, but he’s not near so skilled with a lance as he is with a blade.”

“I’ll take your bet, Lord Gerold,” she said, turning away from Ethan, eager to prove him wrong.

On their first tilt, Viserys and Aegon scored solid blows on each other’s shields, leaving Dany confident in her choice. On their second tilt, however, Viserys managed an uncontested hit on Aegon’s shoulder, sending him tumbling backwards off his horse and face first into the dirt. A collective gasp sounded from the crowd. Robb rushed in from the end of the lists to help Aegon to his feet. He rose unsteadily but seemed without injury.

Viserys ripped off his helm and roared his excitement to the crowd, celebrating for all the world as if he had won the tourney in full.

“Fret not, princess,” said Lord Gerold. “I’d not take your coin.”

With the day’s jousting coming to a close, Rhaegar led the tourney’s highborn guests to the bank of the Blackwater Rush where a feast had been prepared. Beneath the moonlit stars, they dined on soups and fresh salads, on boar and venison from the kingswood and trout caught fresh from the Blackwater Rush that morning. A bevy of wine pitchers were passed around, but Dany had no thirst this night. Sitting alongside Jae, Rhaenys and Rhaegar at the high table, she watched as Viserys celebrated the day’s victories, drinking his fill and boasting loudly. Dany could only take solace in his impending defeat. He may have beaten Aegon, but he would not defeat Ser Arthur or Ser Oswell or any of the remaining riders.

Aegon and Robb never made their way to the feast, giving Dany cause to worry.

“Off nursing his wounded pride, most like,” Rhaenys said when Dany questioned her. Jae went off to find his brother and cousin to assuage her worries, but he never returned.

The jousting began the next day under the early morning light. Dany found Aegon in the king’s box with Rhaegar and Rhaenys, but Jae and Robb were nowhere to be found.

“Last time I saw him, he and Jae were heading to the training yard,” Rhaenys provided when she asked after her betrothed. When she questioned Catelyn and Ethan about Robb’s whereabouts they seemed just as surprised as she, having assumed he was with her. She settled into her seat in the king’s box, hoping Robb would show himself soon.

Viserys opened the day of jousting, riding against Lord Beric Dondarrion. They made four passes against each other, with Visery unseating Lord Beric on the fourth. After his victory, Viserys rode up and down the lists, pulling silver coins from a pouch attached to his steed’s saddle and raining them down on the smallfolk. The smallfolk cheered and scrabbled in the dirt for the coins. Dany was sickened by the display.  _ He’ll do anything to win their love.  _ If only they knew him as she knew him, they would not cheer for him then, no matter how many coins he threw their way.

The extravagant display was interrupted by the thunder of hooves, as another knight rode into the lists unannounced. The knight rode an unimpressive grey courser and wore armor just as plain. As he rode closer into view, Dany recognized his armor as the iron set worn by boys in the training yard, nicked and dented in a dozen places. The knight was tall and broad, his only distinguishing characteristic was the shield he bore, painted with grey waves.

As the knight drew near, Viserys ended his charity and dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. A hush settled over the crowd.

The mystery knight stopped just short of Viserys. Without saying a word, he removed his gauntlet and threw it to the ground between them, a challenge. A gasp rippled through the crowd, highborn and lowborn alike shocked at the development. Viserys raised his visor to scrutinize the mystery knight. He turned to Rhaegar for an indication on how to proceed. A near imperceptible smile gracing his lips, Rhaegar nodded his consent to the challenge. Viserys turned back to the mystery knight, nodded his acceptance, and slammed his visor down. He reared his horse around and galloped to his starting position.

The mystery knight leaned over in his saddle to scoop up his gauntlet and cantered to his starting position. He did not stop there, however, continuing on to ride along the stands, eventually coming to a stop and pointing a gauntleted finger into the crowd of highborn attendees. It took Dany a moment to realize he pointed to her. Once he had her attention, he beckoned her forward. She spared a glance at Rhaegar, who urged her forward, and hesitantly made her way to the front of the stands.

“My lady, would you be so kind as to honor me with your favor?”

The voice which rumbled forth from the helm was unmistakably Robb’s. Dany almost laughed, but didn’t want to ruin his ruse. Instead, she pulled a lilac ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around his arm, not trusting herself to speak. He rode off to his starting position, receiving a lance from his squire. The squire wore bandages about the bottom half of his face and a hooded cloak to disguise his features, but Dany could guess at his identity.

She walked back to the king’s box, trying not to grin. A small smile had found its way onto Aegon’s stoic face and the look in Rhaenys’ eyes was knowing.

The herald announced the mystery knight as the Knight of the Grey Winds and the tilt began. On their first pass, the Knight of the Grey Winds swung his lance wide, intentionally missing. Viserys scored a solid blow against his shield, but he held his seat. On the second pass, the Knight of the Grey Winds once again swung his lance wide and diverted Viserys’ blow with his shield. A round of laughter went up from the crowd. Dany laughed too, she hoped Viserys could hear it. The third and fourth passes went much the same way, with the laughter growing louder each time. Viserys’ frustration began to show, he barked at his squire as he received a new lance and made ready for another pass.

On the fifth pass, the Knight of the Grey Winds did not miss his strike. Viserys brought his shield to bear, but at the last moment the mystery knight deftly maneuvered his lance and caught him in the center of his chest.

Viserys flew from his saddle and struck the ground with a resounding thud. A cheer went up from the crowd who only moments before had showered him with adulation.

The Knight of the Grey Winds rode a lap around the lists, holding his lance aloft and soaking in the cheers, Dany’s favor fluttering about his arm. His celebration was brief, he stopped to pick up his squire and raced away from the field. Viserys jumped to his feet, ripped his helm off and threw it to the ground. His frustration was met with more laughter. When he rounded and saw the mystery knight fleeing, he wrangled his horse and gave chase. The laughter followed him from the field.

_ He’ll never catch him,  _ Dany thought, smiling,  _ No man ahorse can hope to match him. _

The jousting continued with no more surprises. As the sun began to slip below the horizon and braziers were lit, the herald announced the final bout: Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning versus Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. The cheers which followed Ser Loras’ name were decidedly high pitched, the handsome young knight having won quite a bit of adoration from the female members of the crowd. He looked like a knight from a song, his armor intricately enameled with vibrant jeweled flowers, his cape made of woven roses. Ser Arthur looked no less heroic in his brilliant ivory armor.

The Knight of Flowers rode well, breaking three lances against Ser Arthur, but in the end he was unhorsed. The herald announced Ser Arthur as the champion of the tourney to raucous cheers. He was offered a prize of five thousand gold dragons, but he politely declined them. A wreath of pink desert roses was handed to him and he strode into the stands, placing the wreath on Rhaenys’ head himself and proclaiming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Dany watched and fantasized about the day Robb would place a crown of flowers on her head.

Another feast followed, with the melee and archery competition scheduled for the next day. Viserys had the courage to show up to the feast, empty handed and sulking. He glared daggers at any who dared look his way and took a whole table for himself, forgoing food in favor of cup after cup of wine. Once he was deep in his cups, he began to rant that his defeat shouldn’t count, that the whole day of jousting should be repeated, but none listened to him. When he angrily brought his thoughts to Rhaegar, Rhaegar had him escorted to the castle by Ser Rolland Storm. Once he was gone, men began to laugh at him behind their cups, even men he had defeated.

Dany delighted in his suffering. It was only fair, after he had made her suffer for so many years.

After the feast she returned to the castle. Robb found her on the way to her room, surprising her and pulling her into a side passage. Though he had doffed his armor, he still wore her favor around his arm.

“Would you care to join me for an evening stroll, my lady?”

“I would be honored, my lord.”

He lead her a quiet corner of the castle gardens. A marble fountain with a wide circular basin sat there, a statue of the Maiden with her arms outstretched rose from its center. A pitcher of wine and two cups awaited them on the lip of the fountain. Robb lead her to sit at the fountain’s base and poured them each a cup of Arbor gold. She intended to sip her wine, but Robb downed his quickly and urged her to do the same. Two more cups followed in quick succession and by the end of her third she was left with the undeniable fact that if she attempted to stand she would promptly fall flat on her face. Robb seemed in better shape than she, but only by a little.

He pulled her close and kissed her then, his lips tangy and sweet. She ran her hands across his chest while he explored the curves of her body. She pulled away, licking her lips, enjoying the hungry look in his eyes.

“My hero,” she slurred. “The Knight of the Grey Winds.”

He laughed. She giggled. Neither of them seemed capable of stopping. They collapsed against each other, laughing until they couldn’t breath anymore.

That was how Viserys found them.

His lilac eyes, full of malice, settled almost instantly on the ribbon bound around Robb’s arm.

“I knew it,” he said, his voice low, his speech slightly slurred. “I knew it! Aegon couldn’t stand against me, so he sent his mongrel dog to humiliate me.”

“You’ll not talk to me that way,” Robb said. He made to rise but Dany held him in place, her eyes wide and fearful, remembering the last time Viserys had come to her drunk.

“I’ll talk to you whatever way I please, whoreson. I’ve half a mind to-”

Viserys’ word were cut off as Robb broke out of Dany’s grasp and drove his fist into Viserys’ chin, snapping his jaw shut with a clacking of teeth and sending him falling backwards. He stood over Viserys, fists clenched and face red. Viserys lunged to his feet with a curse and tackled him about the middle, driving him backward until he tripped over the lip of the fountain and they both splashed into the fountain’s waters.

Dany clumsily dove out of their way as they fell into the fountain. When she managed to pull herself to her knees, her movements slowed by wine, she saw Robb and Viserys rolling in the fountain’s waters, punching and kicking and biting and scratching at each other. First one was on top, then the other, then the other. She screamed for them to stop, for someone to come help, but nobody listened.

Robb ended up on top, straddling Viserys’ chest and holding his head under the water. Viserys’ pale hands beat at Robb’s chest and scratched at his arms, his movements becoming ever more erratic the longer he went without air.

“Robb, stop!” Dany screamed.

Robb was lost to her words, his face red and snarling.

Viserys’ hand retreated beneath the water, it returned holding a dagger. The blade was thrust up once, twice, thrice.

Robb fell into the fountain’s waters, dying them red.

Viserys’ rose and took in a lungful of air.

Daenerys screamed.


End file.
